Metamorphosis
by RobertDowneyJrLove
Summary: Beginning with a dance on New Year's eve, follow Chance and Ilsa down the rabbit hole of 2014 and see what happens to their relationship along the way...
1. New Year's Dance

_December 31st, 2013_

New Year's Eve. The only day of the year, aside from July 4th, when it was acceptable to send thousands of dollars up in smoke with only a ten second spray of color illuminating the night sky and burnt wrappers littering grassy lawns to show for it. When the song, Auld Lang Syne, becomes the most annoying song you think you might ever hear, aside from the cheerful Christmas tunes the department stores play on loop and for most, it's a time to think about the past year and their hopes for the new year. It's also a flurry of champagne, cheap strings of beads befitting Mardi Gras more than New Years, and the odd drunkard who felt the need to dance naked in the street as a way to ring in the new year.

Or, perhaps that was just in San Fracisco.

She's celebrated New Years in many different countries, from the heart of London to the dusty plains of Africa to the snowy moutaintops of Switzerland, but the distinct flavor the U.S. adds to New Years celebrations is new and different. It's also a taste Ilsa Pucci hasn't quite acquired yet. While she was sure San Francisco had plenty to offer as far as parties went, the nightlife just wasn't her style. She'd much rather celebrate the coming of the new year in a much more subtle way.

Which is why 2014 will find her tucked in her office with her cell phone turned off and a pile of paperwork that needs to be done for the Marshall Pucci Foundation. It's only coffee for her this year. She had shied away from alcohol, still remembering a time when a bottle of rum, warm in her veins and mixing with sodium thiopental, had led to a kiss between her and her colleague. That had been over two years ago and even now, she keeps her drinks strictly non-alcoholic when there's a possibility of running into _him. _

"What are you doing here?"

Speak of the devil.

How poetic that the moment she chooses to look up at him is the very second a firework pops and a starburst of color sprays bright against a velvet purple sky. Outside her window, the crowd gathered on the street below gasps loudly but she pays it no mind, instead focusing on her colleague. He looks utterly disheveled, draped across her doorway in a pair of navy blue sweatpants with messy blond hair and bleary eyes. There's a decided lack of sleep in his voice - insomniac, she decides. Or, chronic late night television viewer.

"Oh." she manages to play it relatively cool, not wanting to alert him to the fact that she had been thinking about him. "Mister Chance."

"What are you still doing here?" he repeats his question, crossing his arms over his chest. His very bare chest with the lightest dusting of coarse hair carving out his muscles.

"I have paperwork to do." She offers succinctly, scrawling her name in elegant script on yet another legal waiver. Always an act first, think later sort of guy, he steps into her office and makes his way around her desk to peek over her shoulder at the papers she's signing. She just continues her work, not bothering to pay any mind to what he is doing. By the third paper, she feels uncomfortable under his intense blue gaze and tilts her head back to meet his eyes; "Do you need something, Mister Chance?"

"Come with me." a gentle hand squeezes her shoulder, encouraging her to get up.

"I can't, I have paper work." Ilsa protests, not that it'll do her any good.

The light plays in his eyes, sparking with mischief, and his lips curl into a devilish grin. He's obviously come up with a contingency plan, should one be needed. He didn't really expect her to go without protest, did he? Sometimes, he greatly underestimates her ability to resist him. Then again, he's also well aware of what he does to her and takes advantage of it. He reaches for her hand and tugs her out of her chair. With a slightly disgruntled sigh, she relents and follows him, flipping the switch to turn off her office light before he can tug her completely out of the room.

"That work will still be there, tomorrow." He reminds her, reaching the window that looks out over the city in three long strides. "For now, let's enjoy it."

He meets her gaze with raised eyebrows, as if daring her to defy him. She knows she can't win. He's far to clever and fast for her. She relaxes against the window sill and watches the colorful display but it doesn't take long for her to shift anxiously. Even in the safe retreat of darkness, she feels flustered and shy, afraid to open up to him, even though this is the same man who knew every detail of her marriage. It is still difficult to open up to him, two years later.

The ghost of a grin playing on his lips is concealed by the darkness, his sharp eyes focusing on her instead of the fireworks. A kaleidoscope of colors from the bright cherry reds and fiery oranges to the jeweled blues, purples, and greens to the resplendent silvers and golds dance across her face and in her hair, slipping through the black curls and adding a dimension that hadn't been there before. She is worth far more than the adjective, impressive. And, under the cover of the dark, he can let himself think this way. When the sharp light of day isn't flushing out flaws and imperfections and idiosyncrasies that neither one of them can tolerate in the other.

"Let's dance."

His words mimic those spoken at a charity party a few years ago, only less forced, less out of need to put on a false show for the crowd and more of his own want. Yes, want. Perhaps sexual, perhaps more. He isn't sure. All he knows is that she is standing so damn close he can smell her perfume and she looks like a Goddess, even in her usual work attire. And he wants to dance because he wants to know what she feels like. He wants to know if she's as warm and as soft as she looks, without the stiffness of being in front of a crowd, without any of her usual facade.

"Mister Chance..." her voice tapers off into nothingness. What can she say when he's sliding his hand from her elbow down to her palm? She simply shuts her mouth and allows him to lead her out into an open part of the office.

He forgoes the traditional dance position in favor of one that is closer, more intimate, and more affectionate. He wraps both arms around her waist, holding her close to his body. She hesitantly, as if afraid she'll scare him off, wraps her arms around his shoulders and settles against him. He's warm and hard and fits against her snugly. It takes them a few steps to find the beat, the synchronize with one another, and to relax but she's the first one to do so.

Neither of them lead.

It's the first time that one of them hasn't had the upper-hand in a given situation and it's strange but the closeness of their embrace puts them on equal footing. They can't fight for the lead without stepping on one another's toes and they do that professionally. They don't want to do it personally, too. So, they slow dance in the lobby of the warehouse turned office, to the broken melody of Auld Lang Syne, that's still drifting from somewhere in the distance. Still looping on a sound system, even as the celebrations come to a close and the inky blackness of midnight bleeds into the pearly gray of a new day; the soft orange of the rising sun burning off the haze.

It makes no difference to them. It's 2014. A new year. The song may speak of love and friendships gone by but this, this is new and exciting and it doesn't have to end. Not yet.

They have a while.

* * *

><p><strong>So...thoughts? I can leave it like this because it can stand alone but part of me wants to add more. Not to this, but turn it into a multi-chapter thing. I know this is a bit of a surprise but I found a website where I can watch Human Target and my babies called me! They just...they called me! God, I've missed Chance and Ilsa so much, if it was possible to hug a fictional character, they would be at the top of my list right now. LOL! I'm a weirdo, I know. Leave me lots and lots of love, Dolls!<strong>

**Love, **

**RobertDowneyJrLove**


	2. January, 2014

_January 2014 _

She takes him back to Belfast, Ireland.

It was only three days after the dawn of the new year that she had made her request for him to come with her on a ten day stay in northern Ireland. Although, he forgets that the woman he's come to know as utterly British is technically Irish, he will never forget the sight of those awful scars on her shoulder or hearing the story behind them. The anniversary of her parents' death is approaching and it's been far too long since she's visited her previously war-ravaged birthplace, a mere ghost of what was compared to the bright, shiny cities she calls home.

The hotel she books for them is expansive with comfortable rooms and just as delightful beds. Staying in such luxury is new for him but she seems right at home. At least, he thinks so, until their first night.

He's watching late night television because midnight in north Ireland was the rough equivalent to four in the afternoon in California. While he's certain jet lag will eventually catch up to him, when he adjusts to the eight hour time difference, insomnia had staked its claim and was not relenting in the slightest. David Letterman is in the middle of yet another lame attempt at humor when a knock on his door startles his attention away from the television. Biting back an annoyed groan, he climbs out of the bed and makes his way to the door.

"What do you - " he stops short at the sight that greets him.

Well.

Aside from looking like the most arousing thing that he could ever find at his door at midnight in a city like Belfast, she also looks terribly uncomfortable and in need of a friend. Her arms are crossed over her chest, gray bathrobe barely covering much more than the slip of emerald green he sees when her legs shift and the fabric parts, and her eyes are focused quite intently on the floor, as if the earth would open up at her will and swallow her whole.

He releases a breath, forcing his attraction on the back burner, in favor of being her friend. "C'mon in."

The door opens wider and he's surprised by how terribly reluctant she is to come into his room, even though she had knocked on his door. The same woman, who at home, wouldn't hesitate to barge in before he had the opportunity to answer, looks terrified to even look at him. Her movement is almost robotic when she finally walks into his room and sits down on the edge of the bed, stiff and unmoving. He watches her for a few seconds, taking in her near-catatonic state before deciding the direct approach was best; "Ilsa, what's going on?"

"I - I can't do this."

Her stuttering, fumbling for the right words to express her anxiety is all that he needs to know that she's taking it hard. He knew when she had asked him that it would be hard for her and he had wondered if she knew that. It is abundantly clear now that realization is setting in and she isn't prepared for the reality of where she is. He takes a seat next to her on the edge of the bed. Words will be meaningless, right now, so he doesn't bother but he can at least be there.

Several minutes of maddening silence pass before she speaks, croaks rather.

"Belfast is no longer my home." a curtain of black curls hide her face but her hand wiping her eyes and the soft sniffles tell him she's crying. "I don't know why I thought it was a good idea to come back. I don't see it for what it is. All I see is what it used to be."

"And, what is that, Ilsa?" Chance inquires softly, carefully.

She slips a hand through her hair, pulling it away from her face, and offers him a sardonic laugh. "A place ravaged by war, never truly at peace, and a place that nearly killed me."

He doesn't know what to say. There's nothing, really, that he can say. He can't change the way she sees her birthplace. She'll always see the place for what it used to be. It will never be home again. He spares a glance at the TV, where Letterman is ending, and it fades into a commercial. He looks back at Ilsa and cracks a half-hearted grin; "It doesn't look like we'll be getting any sleep tonight, so how about you crash here, we'll watch late night TV, order a late dinner?"

"That sounds lovely, Mister Chance."

It's the first genuine smile he's seen out of her since they landed. So, with a new determination to make the most of their ten day stay here and help her cope with memories, he stands up and makes his way around the bed to the phone on the other nightstand. Without the need of encouragement, Ilsa sheds her robe (Chance may or may not have gulped a little) and makes herself comfortable under the covers. He orders dinner and dessert for both of them before joining her in the bed. He tries not to think of the tiny piece of emerald fabric she's wearing underneath, or the fact that she's in his bed.

She makes him so damn uncomfortable. Or, maybe just horny.

They're up long after late night talk shows fade into infomericals and the dark blackness of night bleeds into the rose-gold hue of dawn. With a shy smile, she asks if he would like to come on a tour of Ireland with her. He already knows she won't go without him, so they make arrangements to meet in the lobby for breakfast after a hot shower to scrub the long night away and refresh them for a new day. He's waiting for her in the lobby when she steps off of the elevator in warm clothes and shockingly flat boots.

"Ready?"

Oh, the implications behind that question. Was she ready for what the day had in store? No. Definitely not. Was she ready to enjoy a breakfast with one of her best friends and enjoy his company? Yes. So with the impending anxiety of the day shoved into the back of her mind, she loops her arm around his and lets him lead her to the restaurant.

xxx

The journey through her past began with a friendly, if quiet breakfast.

She's anxious, nauseated even, when they finally venture out into the cold, but having him at her side calms her more than he'll ever know and more than she'll ever tell. She can't help but admire him, next to her in dark jeans, the neckline of a gray shirt peaking out of his black trench coat, and black shoes. Tall and strong and much braver than she's ever given him credit for. It's been a long while since she's been back to her previously war-ravaged birthplace and to her, it's a ghost of the past, pushed to the dark recesses of her mind. It doesn't take a genius to know that it's pure sense memory that takes him on a tour through Belfast.

The first place she takes him is, appropriately, her childhood home. It's a quaint little house tucked into a thicket of trees; not much left of it, having long ago been abandoned, but she remembers it clearly. Vivid details. She approaches the front door with a hesitance, staring at it as if it's a schoolyard bully that she can't quite work up the nerve to stand up to. She makes it onto the front porch but no further; memories, good and bad, keep her from entering what had at one time been a safe and familiar place for her. He waits in the yard, stationed like a bodyguard just by the steps, ready to haul her away at the first sign of a breakdown. His hands are shoved into his pockets, protecting them from the icy cold, and his eyes are fixated on her, watching her carefully.

"My mother," her boots scrape the layer of ice that covers the splintering wood of her front porch as she turns on her heel and moves closer to the first step. "She used to stand in this spot and see my Father off to work." she cups her hands together, as if cradling a mug of some sort. "She'd drink her coffee and watch him until he disappeared from sight, long after, even. Sometimes, by the time she came back in the house, her coffee would be frozen."

She carefully steps down, hands falling to her sides, and turns to face the front door. "She'd stand in that same place and see me off to school."

He reaches toward her, offering his hand to help her down the steps. Her gloved hand slides into his and she offers him a weak smile in gratitude. Ilsa relishes his strong hold, the support and the comfort it offers, even if it is just to help her down the icy steps. She never has anyone with her on these trips, not even Marshall had come with her. In all the years that she's been coming back, she never thought it would be so comforting to have someone with her. Someone to handle what she can't.

But, in a lot of ways, it seems inappropriate to dump all of her burdens on Chance. He deals with his own struggles and demons; faces his past everytime a new client comes calling for his protection and she's starting to realize that, all too often, she takes him for granted.

"Ilsa?" his warm breath mushrooms in a white cloud of condensation.

She just tightens her hand in his and ventures away from the house, tugging him along behind her. They end up ten minutes away from where they started, trudging along an overgrown path. Leaves crunch and twigs snap under their boots. He's starting to wonder where she's taking him until she stops and he nearly crashes into her back, slinging his arm around her hip to keep them both upright.

"Ilsa?"

"Here."

The emerald grass beneath their feet had once been worn to dust from years of use; from when she took it to school every morning. She remembers everything, even the exact spot where the bullet entered her shoulder and recalls with stunning clarity, her pained scream. The scared little girl hiding beneath the surface emerges as the memories fade into one another and she tells him that the second bullet had done the most damage. It had ricocheted. Nicked her clavicle. Almost nicked an artery. Nearly killed her.

"So much blood." her bottom lip quivers and she visibly trembles. "I almost fainted."

And it sends him into a tailspin.

He can't seem to wrap his head around what she's telling him. Ilsa Pucci, one of the strongest women he knew, had nearly died because of a fight that wasn't her own. He imagines her clearly; black curls bouncing against small shoulders, large brown eyes, and with such vibrancy about her. At the time, he likes to think, her accent would have veered more toward Irish than British and it's easy to imagine the smooth brogue and how easily it would suit her smooth voice.

"I spent a month recovering." Ilsa inhales sharply, trying in vain to dry her eyes. "My, uh, accent changed when my parents sent me to London. Hell, I changed when they sent me to London." she recalls, looking down at the ground. Where she was nearly killed; where her life changed. "They scraped up all the money they could to send me to London. They wanted better for me. I wasn't going to complain."

"Ilsa - "

"I know how I act, sometimes, Mister Chance." Ilsa interrupts him sharply, crossing her arms over her chest. She doesn't like this vulnerable feeling; doesn't like being exposed to him like this. "You have to understand, I do it out of genuine concern, not to annoy you."

"You don't have to explain, Ilsa." Chance shakes his head.

"Yes, I do."

"You were shot, Ilsa, as a kid. You don't owe me an explanation." The reality is, he can't handle it. He can't handle her explanation, not knowing how they've treated each other, but it's obvious she wants to explain so despite his discomfort and his anguish at having to hear it, he listens.

"I just don't like to see you hurt, not and face the same thing I did." Ilsa backs away a few steps and focuses intently on the leaves crushed by her boots. "That bullet left me in the hospital for a month. I don't want to see you end up like that, or worse."

Her words hang in the air; a token of friendship, a peace offering of sorts, in some way that neither of them really understand. Something very palpable and very real but unreaching simmers beneath the surface, even with the intimacy of that dance shared at midnight New Year's day lingering between them. This intimacy, this knowledge that they stood on the same ground, shaky though it was sometimes, it's all very new and they're both scared of what could happen with the lightest little push. Even though, if it was up to Winston, Chance knows his ass would have been kicked long ago when it came to Ilsa.

In that aspect, Winston was braver. Unafraid of what might happen if he pushed, always willing to take a chance, only backing down when he's almost crossed that line. Whereas Chance was a little more cautious, less likely to take risks that might push the boundaries of his personal life. If he lets Ilsa in, let's her cross those boundaries, he's afraid she won't like what she finds. There's so much holding him back, so much he can't risk, that he doesn't want to, that it scares him into shutting down completely. But, now, he can't. She's exposed herself, let herself be open with him, offered him something that shows that they aren't much different.

"It happened in Sarajevo," he tugs his jacket off and turns away from her, lifting his shirt slightly to let her see. She looks up from her boots at the sound of his voice to see him holding his shirt just above an intricate weaving of silvery scars tattooed along his lower back. "Got tangled up in some barbed wire, trying to get away."

He feels one of her gloved fingers tracing the maze of silver, warm breath tickling his neck. She traces halfway across his back before hooking her fingers onto the hem of his shirt and pulling it down. She's seen enough. She slides her hand up his back and squeezes his shoulder. "I'm sorry."

"The person who saved my life, who pulled me out of the barbed wire, was a doctor." Maybe it's the memory, or maybe it's just a need to make sure she won't run away like every other person in his life has, but he covers her hand with his before he speaks again. "He put me under, stitched up my back, and the next day I found a bag with a note and enough money to get out of the country. I didn't deserve his help."

"Chance - "

"I was there to kill him." Chance interrupts her, turning around to face her. He needs to see her reaction; needs to know what she thinks when forced to confront his past. The range of emotions clouding her eyes completely baffles him; confusion and fear melding into something softer, something a little more caring and maternal. There's a decided lack of hatred, of what he's been expecting, wanting even, just to see the steely Ilsa, he's been witness to before. "I was there because someone was willing to give me ten thousand dollars to put a bullet in his head."

"But you didn't." Oh, his tough self-loathing bravado is no match for her tender rationale but she's not going to let him get away with hating himself. She has no qualms about scolding him, even now. "The past is the past and I think you've let it shame you into a corner for far too long. We both have."

Oh, is that true. Wow. She really has a way of getting to him but that doesn't mean he missed that last part about her doing it too. It's all an act, a show they put on, pretending they're okay when really, their pasts are eating away at them. He wonders how long she's been carrying around the memories of her childhood, waiting to tell them to somebody, especially when she could have told her husband. His eyebrows furrow in confusion, curious as to why she would tell him something she probably never told her husband. "Ilsa, did you ever tell your husband any of this? Your childhood?"

"Heavens, no." Ilsa shakes her head with a dry laugh, "He wouldn't have understood. He came from a privileged background, never knew what it was like to work your way up to something. It was practically handed to him the day he was born. He was a hard worker and every penny we have was legitimately earned, but the company was an inheritance."

"Why me?"

"Because, you have scars just like I do." Ilsa explains, as if it is the simplest thing in the world. "If anyone was going to understand it was you."

"How long..?" he fumbles slightly, pausing to gather his thoughts. "How long have you been carrying this around with you?"

"I'd guess about as long as you've been carrying around Sarajevo." she teases him, hoping to lighten the mood. She dissolves into laughter when all he can offer in reply is a sheepish expression. His laughter surprises her but she enjoys it nonetheless. It isn't often, especially in their line of work, that they're afforded a good laugh, something to break up the tension, and chase away the demons brought about by their missions. She sobers up and reaches for his hand again. "Come on. It's cold and I need coffee."

The coffee shop closest to her childhood home offers warmth, strong coffee, and a selection of delicate pastries. He ushers her into a booth to warm up while he orders for them - two large cups of coffee, black, and a box of everything swimming in chocolate. She needs the endorphin rush - hell, they both do after the morning they've had. It's a delicate balancing act carrying two cups of coffee and pastry box but he manages. He passes her a cup of coffee and sets the box down to open it, encouraging her to eat at least one of the chocolate confections.

Conversation flows easily, their mugs see numerous refills, and between them, they consume enough chocolate for at least six people if not more. The rest of the morning is occupied, not with recollections of the past, but explorations of the present. It's noon before they venture back out into the cold to find their way back to the hotel. He makes her laugh, shares stories of some of his not-so-bright moments, and for the first time since they began their journey through her childhood began, she finally feels like it's not something she has to hide.

Perhaps, their trip to Ireland wasn't a waste, after all.


	3. February, 2014

It's a bit cliche, the way it happens but it is them and despite all efforts to the contrary, they've always had the 'knight in battle-worn armor saves princess from certain death' thing surrounding them, practically since they met. It happens in a series of unfortunate events - not that her life is a Lemony Snicket novel - that closely resembles the kind of chain reactions, she was taught about in school. One event sets off whatever happens after it and so on.

Her five hundred dollar heels, ones she had lusted after for a month but never had the opportunity to buy, had fit like a dream and wearing them to work had seemed like a brilliant idea at the time. Heels and the right skirt always threw Chance off of his game a little bit. Not that, that was her objective, just a happy coincidence. Even if seeing him trip over himself was amusing. She didn't count on the damn things snapping like cheap plastic as soon as she stepped off the elevator but she's barely out of the elevator before she hears what sounds like a twig snapping and feels her ankle roll. Due to her loss of balance, and maybe because the universe is against her, the to-go cup of coffee in her hand jostles and why hadn't she just left the lid on?

There went that blouse.

Her sparkling white, fresh from the tailor blouse that she adored, now had a sizable - and still hot - coffee stain down the front. She's bracing herself for the inevitable but it never happens. Arms lock around her waist and her head collides with a broad chest, the smell of cologne, or maybe aftershave, dizzies her. He shifts her slightly so that she's upright once more and keeps his hold on her to allow her a moment to compose herself and recover from the shock.

"You okay?" his attempt to release her fails as she grabs his arm in fear that she may actually hit the ground this time. He looks down to find that one of her heels had snapped and the actual heel had skittered across the hardwood floor and was now by the elevator. She was balancing on a broken shoe and a shoe that was too high for her to balance properly on one foot. "Take the other one off."

"I can't."

Without need of a request, he scoops her up and carries her through the warehouse, up to his loft. How he manages the stairs with her in his arms will forever remain a mystery to her but he does and drops her on his couch. She breathes a sigh of relief when she's finally sitting down and can take her shoes off. She stares grumpily at the broken shoe and mumbles something that sounds like, "Waste of money!", but could have been something much more obscene.

He just laughs and taps her leg, "Let me see your ankle."

Oh boy.

This would be interesting. She turns to rest against the arm of the couch, bending one knee against the couch, and propping her very sore ankle on his knee for his inspection. It's only when her leg touches his knee does she realize that he's still wearing his sweatpants. The soft material is warm against her skin and his hands are just as warm and slightly rough. His fingerpads scrape along the underground network of veins beneath the skin, unconsciously feeling the faint thrum of her pulse. Elevated, no doubt.

"Just a sprain. It will be sore." Chance looks up at her. "Come on, I'll take you home so you can change."

Ilsa nods and he reluctantly releases her ankle so that she can stand up. "I'm afraid, this blouse is ruined."

He helps her up and over to the stairs. It's a slow hobble, with Ilsa not being able to rely on Chance to help her without both of them falling. He, on the other hand, goes no faster than Ilsa can manage with her sore, slightly wobbly ankle. She needn't hurt anymore today. He steps off of the last step before she does and before she touch the ground, he scoops her up again. Her curious _(okay, angry) _glare made him laugh and point out the distance from the stairs to elevator. "There is no way you can make it to the elevator, not on that ankle."

She concedes his point and relaxes into his hold. He is surprised, normally by now, she would have been protesting loudly about not needing his help, that she could help herself. He supposes her ankle could be hurting her enough not to care about her independence but he suspects that more than her ankle was bruised - her pride had taken a hit and had been silenced by the pain in her foot. There were times, more serious than this, when he wished she would have kept silent and let him help her but he understands why she didn't.

At the time, she had been a fish out of water in his world, and to have him always helping her, it made her look weak. Incapable of handling the business she was in and he, himself, had been guilty of that same thought, even going so far as to call her a trophy wife. He had learned later just how wrong he was to ever think that she couldn't take care of herself and how stupid it was of him to call her a trophy wife.

But, was it so wrong of him to want to take care of her, sometimes?

xxx

Her heel and the spilled coffee is left for someone else to deal with while Chance takes her home. The ride to her place happens without further incident, although he had noticed Ilsa biting down on her lip a couple of times to hide the fact that her ankle hurt and would be making sure she spent at least a few minutes with an ice pack. It's silent but not completely uncomfortable between them but then again, since their conversation in Ireland, sharing battle scars, they haven't really had a chance to talk for more than a few minutes before he leaves to save a client.

It's a slow walk-hobble sort of thing that gets them to her apartment and a quick fumble for Chance's keys so that he can use the spare - after, Hector Lopez, she had gifted him with the spare for easy access, should another emergency ever come up. "Okay," Chance sighs once they're in the door, only to notice stairs in her apartment. "Okay, I'm guessing your bedroom is up the stairs?"

"No." Ilsa shakes her head, nodding to the short hallway leading off of the kitchen. "After my attack, I moved to the guest room."

He doesn't say anything. Not because he doesn't want to insult her - which he doesn't - but because he has nothing to say. What was he supposed to say? That it's been almost four years? That she shouldn't let fear control her like that? That would be hypocritical. Fear had done more than control him the night of her attack. It had constricted him, squeezed the air from his lungs, pulled something from him that he thought had been long gone.

And, then, in Ireland when he had seen her so vulnerable, willing to let her past consume her, if only to show him that they weren't as different as he thought, that feeling had returned. That innate _need _to protect her.

He doesn't seem aware of it, but she feels how his arm tightens around her, and how unwilling he is to let her go once they reach her bedroom door.

"Chance," she reaches down to hold the hand that's clinging to her hip. "I need to go change so we can go back to work."

"Oh. Right. Yeah."

It's reluctant but he lets her go, nevertheless. He trudges back to the kitchen and unabashedly digs through it until he finds what he needs. A tea towel is pulled a from a drawer and he rips the ice tray out of it's place in the freezer. He listens for any signs of distress while he fixes the makeshift ice pack for her. He'll never tell her that he really wishes she'd stay at home and take care of her ankle, not limp around the office to take care of monotonous paperwork that can wait.

But, Ilsa, ever the work-aholic, would never listen to him.

He dumps the ice tray on the counter and heads down the hallway again. Maybe she wouldn't listen to him but he had to try, at the very least. He should knock but Ilsa's well-being is far more important to him than her state of undress, whatever that might be. Knocking is a waste of time - she can't come to the door, anyway - but when he stumbles through the door, he realizes that perhaps it might have saved them both an incredible amount of embarrassment. She gasps in shock, reaching for the blouse on the bed.

She is _not _dressed, at least not from the waist up.

She's standing in front of her bed so _very _topless and he needs to go before things get awkward. He backs out of the room and closes the door behind him with a mumbled apology, leaving Ilsa standing there with wide eyes and a crimson flush staining her cheeks. She quickly redresses in her clean shirt and waits in vain for her cheeks to cool.

He's just staring at the ice tray and tea towel when he hears her bedroom door open and a pained call, "Chance?"

Once again leaving the makings of an icepack, he heads down the hall to help her into the living room. She's fully dressed this time - thank, the powers that be - in the same black skirt with a soft violet blouse and a pair of very uncharacteristic flats in her hand. No eye contact. None. Which should be relatively easy considering the previous incident. It doesn't matter about that, because the image of her standing by her bed in only her bra and skirt is forever burned into his brain and has awakened his decidedly more carnal arousal.

"I'll go get you an ice pack." Chance mumbles, gently depositing her on the couch. She's waiting patiently, staring at her hands, when he returns with the homemade ice pack. He lifts her feet and turns to sit, dropping her feet in his lap. A surprised noise escapes her when he holds the towel-wrapped ice to her ankle. "You should think about staying home today. You shouldn't walk on this."

"You should think about knocking." Ilsa counters, mirth dancing in her eyes.

"Hey, I - "

"Stop." Ilsa holds up her hand, cutting him off mid-sentence. When she has his attention, she drops her hand and forges ahead with her quest. She is determined to talk about what happened in Ireland, even if he is not. "Chance, we have to talk."

"About what?" his eyes drop to his lap in clear avoidance. Oh, brilliant plan. Like, she isn't going to pick up on it.

"You, of all people, should know about what." she's clearly not taking any of this avoidance crap because she continues without letting him get a word in edge-wise. "We shared things with each other in Ireland. I told you things about my past, my husband didn't even know."

"I know, Ilsa. And, I think it's great you feel comfortable sharing all that with me but - " he drops off with a forlorn sigh. "Ilsa, I can't do this."

"You aren't doing anything!" Ilsa cries foul. She likes to think that by now, she knows him well enough to know when he's uncomfortable and he is most definitely uncomfortable. But, she's fed up with his clever tactics to charm his way out of this conversation or come up with a lame excuse when the simple truth is, he's scared. He still wants to fold her away from the world, keep her tucked away like some little secret that nobody can ever know about. She guesses he thinks that if no one knows about her, than no one can get to her. "Being scared is no way to get out of this."

"I'm not scared." Chance insists, but even he knows he's lying.

"Yes, you are." she leans forward, wrapping a hand around his forearm and tugging it to her, cradling his hand in both of hers. "You want to protect me but as I've said before, Mister Chance, I'm fine. I can take care of myself, you know."

"I know." Chance grumbles.

"Excuse me?"

"You can take care of yourself. I know that!" a whole storm of conflict rages in his eyes and his guard slips for the briefest of moments. "But, it means you don't listen to me, Ilsa. Yes, I want to protect you, because there are people out there that want me dead. My old boss would love nothing more than to get one of his men after me. If he finds out about you, he'll want both of us."

"You've protected me from far worse, Mister Chance." Ilsa reminds him gently, rubbing her thumb across the veins in the back of his hand. "I never would have been able to escape the CIA without you. What's so different about now?"

He hangs his head, releasing a long breath, before looking up at her. "Because, I wasn't sure how I felt about you then. All I knew was that we had to get away and I had to keep you alive. I didn't know that I would come to..."

"Come to what?" Ilsa wills herself not to smile. Not appropriate, not while he's fighting with himself like this. Not when he's opening up to her like this.

"I like you, Ilsa." Chance growls, huffing out a long breath. "I have feelings for you and if I want to protect you, it's because everyone I've ever cared about has gotten hurt and I don't want that to happen to you."

Oh.

_Oh. _

She understands now. This is about his fear of her getting hurt should he get too close to her and how her independence might keep her from listening to him when he's trying to protect her. But, more than that, he's afraid of his feelings for her. He's afraid to feel anything, afraid that if he does, if he lets himself develop feelings for something, his world will come crashing down around him again. Like it had with Katherine and Maria.

"Mister Chance, I want you to listen to me." Ilsa regards him with respect and a certain fondness, her voice strong but completely calm. "If you feel that I am in danger but I am not listening to you, I want you to tell me. I want you to do whatever you think you have to do to make me listen to you. I am stubborn but I'd like to change that. I see now, how much it would mean to you if I tried to."

"Thank you."

"It is really I, who should be thanking you." she squeezes his hand affectionately. "It isn't very often that you communicate so openly like this. I know it can't be easy for you."

"It's getting easier." Chance offers her a ghost of a smile. "I'll knock before I open any doors, though."

"Thank you."

With a laugh, their conversation changes into something familiar and comfortable - bickering like children. She does listen this time when he asks her to stay home but only on the condition that he keep her company. Yes, they both had work to on their relationship, personal and professional, but this was a step in the right direction. She opens up about her relationship with Marshall and how his death had changed her view on him. She also shares her feelings for Chance and how, he is no longer her investment, but a friend and how she'd very much like him to come back to her at the end of a mission.

As long as he knocked.

* * *

><p><strong>Six drafts, a long-hand attempt with pen and paper, and many hours and days later, I give you February! Is it cliche? Probably but after the heaviness of the last chapter, I really didn't care how cliche this seems. Heck, I even knowledge the fact that it's cliche in the first sentence! I like it and we're gonna keep it! So, leave me some love, dolls! <strong>

**Love, **

**RobertDowneyJrLove**

**P.S. Why no conversation about him seeing her topless? Well this is set three years after the series finale, the way I figure it, this probably isn't the first time he's seen her without a shirt on. It is awkward, but nothing they probably haven't dealt with before. At least, in my head. I really should work on that. I work all of this stuff out in my head and don't incorporate it, when I probably should. **


	4. March, 2014

Huh.

So, _that _is how you get Christopher Chance to take his clothes off. If she would have known that, she might have employed such methods, however devious, much sooner. Not that she would change anything about how their evening has gone so far, but knowing what she knows now, she does wish such endeavors had taken place a couple of weeks ago, just before their last argument. It might have prevented things from being said, things which they both regretted later. And, really, all it had taken was a simple seafood with pasta recipe - _not _tortellini, the very sight of the aforementioned pasta made her giggle uncontrollably and recall with a stony sobriety the events that transpired after that moment between them - and some dark chocolate filled strawberries to, ahem, grease the wheels so to speak. Oh, and there may or may not have been white wine involved. A glass for each, but no more because he doesn't care for it, preferring hard liquor, and she had wanted to be somewhat sober in case the night went as she hoped it would.

Oh, and it had, indeed.

She almost feels bad for using such deceitful means to get what she wanted. Almost. There is no way in hell she is ever going to feel bad about what just happened between them. And, anyway, in her defense, things between them had been moving at a snail's pace since the whole CIA debacle and even since Ireland, she had just wanted to give whatever it was between them a little boost. If the result of that little boost is a very naked Christopher Chance in her bed, then who is she to complain? And hell, if she has ever felt this satisfied in her life, she certainly can't remember it.

"You know," she lightly grazes his stomach with her fingernails, watching with childish delight as the muscles ripple beneath the skin. He wills himself not to groan, instead choosing to focus on his breathing and what she is saying. Even though her hand is now on his chest, fingers sinking in the dusting of coarse blond hair that can be found there. She stares at him with a delighted smile and not entirely guileless brown eyes. "If I had known that cooking for you would get us here, I would have cooked for you sooner."

He offers her a sharp, gruff laugh in return and idly slips a hand through her tangled mess of sweat dampened curls. "If you had," he tugs lightly on her hair, taking unshown delight in the way the skin of her bare shoulders and arms erupt into goosebumps. "I might not have taken the bait."

"I didn't bait you!" Ilsa gasps indignantly, raising up slightly to look at him. The sheets slip down, exposing just enough of her lush cleavage to tease but she pays it no mind, her focus solely on defending herself. "I merely," he waits through her pause with bated breath and a teasing grin tugging anxiously on the corners of his mouth; "wanted to do something nice for you."

Oh please.

The woman had all but asked him to strip. It hadn't taken him but a quick glance at the menu for the evening to figure out what she was doing. Not that he had minded, of course. She was a beautiful woman and if cooking for him, offering a simple but rare indulgence of a fine wine for them to share, and a plate full of chocolate filled strawberries was her way of saying she wanted more, then he was not going to object.

"Ilsa, I'd be an idiot not to know that chocolate is an aphrodisiac." Chance grins down at her teasingly. Damn him. He is enjoying this way too much. "The seafood, the chocolate. The wine. It didn't take much to figure out what you were doing but I like watching you cook." There's a spark of mischief in his eyes now and it makes her uncomfortable. "And, it was fun to see you so nervous, so I let you think I didn't know."

"Bloody jackass."

She nips at his collarbone, lips puckering against the skin, and her tongue soothing the spot with damp heat. His rough growl vibrates against her mouth and the scratchy noise in her ear does nothing but elicit a giggle. He's clearly not amused because he returns her ministrations with a torturous caress of the smooth flesh just above her breasts. The giggle shifts into a sharp intake of air and there's a long pause before she settles her head onto his shoulder and finds content in something far less arousing - for her. For him, it's damn near the worst possible torture to have her hand on his abdomen.

"Are you worried what people will say?" she raises her head and settles her chin on his collarbone, the carnivorous sheen in her eyes is gone. Spent from their previous activities, but she still looks at him with an eagerness, he'd be hard-pressed to miss.

"Shouldn't I be asking you that question?" Chance grins down at her. "I mean, given what just happened, I think you can figure out that I really don't care."

"Me neither." Ilsa shrugs, "But, you've known Winston and Guerrero longer than I have."

"Winston all but drove me to the airport himself when we thought you were leaving." Chance raises his eyebrow, daring her to challenge that. "And Guerrero seems to think I'm bad at reading chicks, so he won't believe me."

"He wouldn't me, either." Ilsa laughs softly, her breath moist and warm on his skin.

"Offer him enough cash and he might." Chance retorts with a wide grin.

"The man would break me." Ilsa deadpans in return. She tilts her head and regards him with questioning eyes. "You are not going to regret this, are you?"

"Like hell I am." Chance almost bolts upright, wondering just where in the hell this was coming from. "Are you?"

"I did all of this, didn't I?" it's Ilsa's turn to raise her eyebrows and he settles back down, conceding her point with a nod. "I knew how I wanted this evening to go and I knew that if that's what I really wanted, I couldn't have any doubts. If I doubted it, I knew I'd regret it. I don't want that."

"Me neither."

"Then, perhaps." she resumes her chosen method of torture, sucking and licking and biting her way down his collarbone. "We should make it clear that there are no regrets. Just so we know."

"Oh, of course." his Machiavellian smirk returns in all of it's shit-eating glory as he rolls them over and buries his face in her neck. "Just," kiss "so," suck "we" bite (_groan) _"know."

Oh no.

No regrets.

xxx

He's gone by the time she awakens the next morning, but there's a note next to her bed. He'd left early, not because he wanted to, but because Winston had called him with a new client and he needed to be at the warehouse to meet them. The smell of her favorite coffee lingers and she can only guess that he'd pressed the button to set it to brew before he left to meet whoever needed his help this week. She drops the note in her bedside drawer and stands up, reaching for something to cover herself up with.

It's then, that she notices what he forgot.

Crumpled in the corner, most likely missing a few buttons, and very wrinkled was the light blue button down shirt he'd been wearing the night before. She remembers the hint of spicy cologne and minty aftershave clinging to the collar and the smell of starch lingering in the fabric. She remembers the distinct way the sleeves fit around his arms, the way he'd rolled them up to his elbows, and the way the fabric had pulled and shifted across the broad strength of his shoulders. She had willed herself not to rip it when taking it off of him, wanting to savor the feel and smell of something so very Chance.

With a smile, she reaches for the shirt and holds it up to examine it. To her surprise, it's in perfect condition aside from needing an iron. So, she hadn't given in and just ripped the damn thing, after all. Not wanting to let go of all evidence of the previous night just yet, she slips the shirt on and does a few buttons before heading downstairs and have a cup of coffee before she heads to the office and the pile of paperwork that no doubt awaits her.

The remnants from last night's dinner wait for her on the table - cream sauce dried on the plates and strawberries strewn about. She picks up the plates, dropping them in the sink for later, and gathers the strawberry stems to be tossed in the garbage. Pouring herself a cup of coffee and heading up to her bedroom to get ready for the day, she mentally plans to repeat last night as soon as physically possible.

Winston is the only one in the warehouse when she makes it to work.

Chance is out with his client, Guerrero and Ames' whereabouts are probably best left alone, and Winston is in the conference room researching every little detail about the man, whose life is in their hands. She had asked him one time why he did such extensive research on a person and he had told her that it was Chance's best weapon. The more he knew about a person, the better he could help them. She had gone on to ask him if he had done the same for her and had been pleasantly surprised to learn that Chance had asked him not to do so unless necessary.

_"You were different from the beginning." _

She leaves him to his work and slips quietly into her office, closing the glass door behind her. Sitting down at her desk, she slips out of her heels, picks up her pen and gets to work. All paperwork needed by the board of directors is put in an envelope, ready to be shipped to London. She's just about to call her attorney about all of the waivers that seem unncessary when her cell phone rings. "Hello," she signs yet another waiver, sandwiching the phone between her ear and her shoulder.

"Hey Ilsa." Chance greets breathlessly.

"Hello Mister Chance." she perks up at the sound of his voice.

Well, he certainly had her attention now. Her distraction had been apparent when she answered and he had realized right away that she hadn't spared a glance at her phone to see who was calling. He takes a moment to check on the client, studiously writing what he knows about the mess he's in on a pad of legal paper, before turning back to his conversation. "Listen, I'm going to be gone a couple of days. This case is bigger than I thought."

"Alright, is there anything you need?" her disappointment hides behind a cool facade of professionalism.

"Yeah." Chance grimaces slightly at her colder tone. "But, Winston's taking care of it. Ilsa - "

"Mister Chance, now's not really the time." Ilsa interrupts him, closing her eyes as she drops her chin to her chest. "Not while you're on a mission."

"I have to go. I'll talk to you later. Bye, Ilsa."

"Goodbye, Mister Chance."

xxx

He's always been a bit impulsive, reckless even, not having that tendency to think things through. Perhaps it's that, or perhaps it's something else entirely that has him pulling up to Ilsa's as Thursday begins its slow bleed into Friday. Everything that's happened between them - the trip to Belfast, telling her what happened in Sarajevo, that one _very _memorable night last week - it's all confusing to him. Every time he's gotten close to someone, they're ripped away but _she _is different. She's always been different. The woman has put her reputation and even her life on the line for him, because of him, and despite trying to run away, she always stayed. She never left. But, it's not just her tendency to run away from her problems that keeps him afraid of losing her.

It's the Old Man.

He's still out there and he's still hanging the same tired, old bullshit over his head, swinging it around like a lasso in hopes of roping him back into the business. "The family business" is what he had called it for years. And, before adopting the moniker, Christopher Chance, he had been Junior. The Old Man's favorite and pick to take over the business should he wish to retire or something should happen to him. _(Chance was still waiting for that day.) _

Still, he can't run away from Ilsa because of something the Old Man might do. It's a vicious cycle and eventually, it's going to end and badly, at that. They're going to get sick of the other running and the world, the life they've built for themselves is going to crash down around them. He has to stop running. And, eventually, he's going to have to get out of his car. He turns the key and pulls it out of the ignition before getting out of the car. He pockets his keys and makes his way to her door. He's barely had time to ring the doorbell before she appears and is that his shirt?

"I was beginning to wonder if you were going to come to the door or just sit in your car all night." her laugh as she opens the door catches him off guard. "You have a key, you didn't have to ring the doorbell."

"I know but I - " Oh crap. He can't do this; can't tell her the truth. Given, his lie is half-baked, it's better than telling her the truth. "It's midnight, I didn't want to just barge in."

The disbelief sparks in her eyes and her arms fold over her chest. "Really?"

"No." he shakes his head, "I came here to - "

"To what, Mister Chance?"

He's not sure if it is the distinct, slightly sultry way she says his name or maybe, it's the way she looks in his shirt, but _something _gives him a push and before either of them can say anything else, he's slammed her into the nearest wall and kicked her door shut with his foot. His hands explore whatever part of her is within reach and she responds in kind. He wants this, he does, but there's also a part of him that needs this. He needs this closeness, this intimacy. He'd never been this close to a woman, at least not close enough that it could lead to anything more than pain and grief at the hands of Baptiste. Then again, Maria really had been his own fault. But, there's Ilsa and she's soft and warm and just so _there. _She cooks for him and takes care of him and is what he never really thought about wanting or needing. She is the stability to his recklessness; the rationale to his insanity.

And, he's finally stopped running long enough to see it.

* * *

><p><strong>About the last part - I know, before it is said, that it seems out of place given everything before it but let tell you my train of thought. Yes, he did tell her that he didn't have any regrets but he got up and left the next morning, given it was for a good reason, I think that being away from her would give him time to think about it. No, he may not have regrets, but he would have a certain reluctance about it. Does he want this with her knowing the old man is still out there? Does he want to keep running from something that is so good? No. So, no, he doesn't have regrets, but there at the end, he did have his doubts. Still, it does seem out of place. Leave me some love, Dolls! <strong>

**Love, **

**RobertDowneyJrLove **


	5. April, 2014

Winston's eyes are wide.

Not that he has small eyes to begin with, but it's a little unnatural - bordering on creepy, actually. He's not a superstitious man, as a general rule, but Winston's eyes bearing a striking resemblance to kitchenware tends to be a harbinger of things to come. Something bad has already, or is going to happen. Unluckily for him, and he does mean unluckily, he usually ended up on the ass end of these events. And, he uses the term event _very _loosely. Unless taking down three heavily armed fixers for the Russian mafia (cliche, much?) is considered an event. That had left him with some spectacular bruising, to the point his ass was starting to feel like an over-ripe melon. He still isn't sure how that one thug had managed that particular move, but it was clearly a favorite because there had been several repeat performances as well as a few encores, and his ass had taken the brunt of it.

Like he said, harbinger. For what, he's not sure.

"You look worried."

"And, you look like you've been dropped on your ass." Oh. Low blow, Winston. His proud chuckle unnerves Chance and is followed with another jab. "But, then again, you always do."

He's humble enough to look insulted but, in true Christopher Chance fashion, he still manages a boastful, "Hey! I saved that guy!"

Winston offers a sarcastic laugh, but the worry makes a reappearance when he sits down to flip through the papers. Chance eases down in the adjacent chair and prepares himself for a wait; whatever his colleague is worried about will make itself known soon enough. He catches a glimpse of whatever has his colleague so worried and finds that it's pictures, he's looking over so intently. Glossy, high definition photos from the looks of the paper. Professional grade. A fraction of the stack is slid in his direction and he plucks the first picture off of the top.

A clear color shot of the license plate of his car.

"Son of a-!"

"Whoever took these has been watching you for quite some time." he resumes his look-through, sliding all the previously viewed photos to Chance. "Damn good zoom lens to get a clear shot of your license plate, like that."

The time-stamps in the corner date the photos as recently as three days ago. He knew exactly where he had been three days ago, more specifically at twelve-twenty eight P.M. and it hadn't been in his bed asleep. No. He had been attending to some _personal business. _Ilsa is still waiting on the construction workers to repair the mysterious hole that had appeared in the wall of her foyer. The mix of pain and pleasure had been worth the hefty six hundred dollar bill at the time. God only knows if Ilsa still concurs with his sentiment.

"Chance?"

Speak of the devil.

She appears in the doorway of the conference room looking disheveled - messy curls, crumpled clothing, and eyes glassy- with a manila envelope in her hand. "Ilsa?" he ignores Winston's obvious alarm at Ilsa's distress for the time being. "Ilsa, what's wrong?"

She holds up the envelope. "A messenger delivered these to my home early this morning."

His eyebrows knit together in confusion but he takes the envelope nevertheless. He opens it up and dumps the contents on the table, sending a spread of pictures sliding across the glass top. A relatively large number of them are of Ilsa herself, that he can tell immediately but upon further inspection, he finds pictures of her car, of her apartment door, and one frighteningly good shot of him at her apartment door. The time-stamp causes him to splutter and nearly choke on his own saliva.

It was that _personal business, _again.

"No post mark. No return address." Winston sighs, turning the envelope in his hands, looking for some sign of who might have sent them. "No way to trace."

With a sigh, Ilsa crumples into a chair and plucks a photo from the table to study intently. She has nothing to contribute but she could at least pretend to look busy. She recognizes the bumper of Chance's white Chevy Camaro; there's a distinctive mark from their mailman's careless driving and he had yet to find a body-shop that didn't want a thousand dollars or more to fix a scratch. The license plate is clear - 810 ESB - but there's something else, something off about the angle.

"Mister Chance, those body-shops you went to, did they take pictures?" she tilts the photo horizontal, just to be sure.

"No. Why?"

"This photo," she lays the photo down for both of them to see. "It doesn't take a photographer to see that it was taken from below the car."

"Up close and personal." Chance sighs, dragging a tired hand through his closely cropped hair. "The dates match the ones on the warehouse photos. They must have come to the warehouse to take the photos, got a clear vantage point from across the street or something."

"How can you be sure?" Winston raises an eyebrow at him.

"I was in Monterrey, dealing with a couple of Russian thugs." Chance reminds him, instinctively reaching for his rear - ahem, his back. "I still have the bruises.

It's Winston who splutters this time, in perfect unison with Ilsa's poorly concealed snicker. Oh yes, the bruises. Not that they could ever forget them, after all, if ever there was a memorable place to have such a display of violent artistry, it was on the rear. Winston clears his throat and reaches for a specific photo holding it up for Chance's inspection. "And, in this photo?"

Damn him.

"Well I, uh I just -"

"I called him." Ilsa interrupts before Chance can dig a hole for himself. "I couldn't sleep and it was particularly loud night in the complex so I called him to keep me company."

It's believable enough, seeing as how neither one of them slept very well. He could count on one hand how many hours he got of sleep a night. Four, if he was lucky, less if it was a particularly bad night. Some nights, he didn't sleep at all. "Hey," he turns to her. "Did your neighbors ever - "

"Oh heavens no." Ilsa shakes her head, "I heard things breaking last night. I dread tonight."

The muscles in his back of his neck twitch and he raises his eyes to meet hers. "If you want somewhere to...?"

It's a bit of an open ended offer but she gets his drift and smiles appreciatively. "Thank you for the offer, Mister Chance."

The whole exchange is a bit puzzling to Winston but he knows not to question. Neither Chance or Ilsa were exactly open books and their relationship had evolved so much over the course of three years that he knows better than to question. Acceptance is peace. At least, where his colleagues were concerned. He continues his close examination of the pictures that had been delivered to Ilsa, looking for some sort of clue as to the sender.

"Photos sent to you and Ilsa, no evidence of the sender." he leans back in his chair, mentally running through the mile-long list of enemies they've collected over the years. There is one name, well alias, that stands out from the rest. The one who had permanent residence at the top of the list. "Chance."

"I know." Chance nods, dropping the photos back onto the table.

"What?" Ilsa's confused gaze darts between her colleagues - ahem, well her colleague and whatever the hell Chance was now. "What is it? Who sent these photos?"

"The Old Man."

"Oh."

Whether it's defeat or a simple acknowledgement of the looming threat the Old Man poses, they don't know, but it forces its way in and the flirtatious banter is silenced as is the playful bickering between best friends. There's nothing to be done about it, not until they know for sure that it is his old boss, but both Chance and Winston seem pretty damn sure and she's learned not to question their instincts. Okay, Winston's instincts. Chance still needs to fine tune his.

But, they all know the truth.

The Old Man is out there.

xxx

It's almost midnight when Ilsa finally decides to retire to her apartment for the night. She contemplates the wisdom of asking Chance to accompany her home, already knowing that given today's events he would freak out if she went home alone. Then again, after this morning in the conference room when it became a very real possibility that the Old Man was responsible for the pictures, he had shoved past her and Winston's attempt to get something out of him and disappeared into his loft, shutting them both out.

But, he also shuts himself out.

He doesn't let himself feel much, choosing to sulk and brood rather than jump in and deal with the problem. Maybe it's the easiest way, or maybe it's just his way of dealing with things, even if it hurts him more than it helps him at times. He completely ignores rationale, even though he knows it's better than any foolish plan he could come up with. It's taken her a while but she's used to this, used to him going off on a mission, a half-assed plan in mind. She's used to him shutting her out of things, even when it concerns them both, but this is different.

This is more personal to him, than to anyone else and while there is no right or wrong way to deal with it, he doesn't seem to be dealing with it at all.

"Night Ilsa." Winston calls from the conference room where he's gathering the abandoned photos.

"Goodnight, Mister Winston."

She sounds tired, even to her own ears, and she only manages a half-smile when Winston looks at her concerned. She's just pressed the down arrow on the elevator, when a presence appears behind her. She already knows who it is and while she wants to say something clever about putting a bell on him, she holds back. This is the first time she's seen him in almost twelve hours and she doesn't want say anything that might send him running for his loft again.

No pointless chit-chat, no witty banter about how Winston is going to be suspicious if they keep leaving together, none of that, just the silent press of keys into his palm. She already knows he wants to drive, he always does when he leaves with her. ("You keep braking like that, you'll ruin your car.") The glimpse she manages to catch of his face paints a scary picture of the true danger of the situation. The stress of the day has etched tired lines around his eyes - which are suspiciously red - and his mouth is pulled taut in a grim line.

"I s'pose you know, we have to talk about this?"

He hears her - she knows he does, but he refuses to answer her. Oh, she hates this side of him. She's seen it before (that one incident right before Thanksgiving came to mind), but that doesn't mean she likes it. It's not that he can't talk about it - he's perfectly capable and probably has something he needs to say - but he _won't_ talk about it. He's refusing to even acknowledge it, as if whatever he has to say isn't something he wants anybody to hear.

Which it probably isn't but it's better than the freaking silent treatment.

As much as she would like to think he's a little softer, a little more open by the time they reach her apartment but she's not willing to fool herself to such a degree. Softer, maybe, but open? Not quite. She suspects when he does open up, it'll involve some sort of training exercise with Guerrero, hopefully not requiring guns and Kevlar vests, because he has some sort of silent understanding with the man. Guerrero may toe the line between moral and immoral but there was no doubt where his loyalty lie and that was admirable.

"You want a drink?"

Heaven knows, she needs one. A single malt. Maybe, the whole bottle, if things kept up at this rate. He's just standing in her living room, pensive eyes darting around the room, hoping to find some ghost of something, anything. He needs to do something to get them out of the danger they're in but there's nothing he can do. Not yet, anyway. His arms lock around her waist, eliciting a gasp of shock from her, but before she can say more, he's moved her to the nearest wall and pressed her into it.

Honestly, a six-hundred dollar hole in one wall wasn't enough for the man?

The sounds of buttons popping and cotton ripping at the seams is all that is heard as he makes short work of getting her blouse off. He gropes her waist in search of the zipper for her skirt and pulls it down, before forcing her skirt down her legs.

"One hole wasn't enough?"

His only response is a growl as he continues his ministrations and it isn't long before she hears the familiar rip of stockings being torn away.

He's going to cost her a whole wardrobe, at this rate.

xxx

She knows.

Maybe, it's that place deep in her subconscious mind, where there is no room for deniability, but wherever it is, she knows what just happened between them is a calm prelude to the coming typhoon of destruction and chaos. Actually, make that three calm preludes because Christopher Chance's stamina is a force to be reckoned with, especially when he's in the frame of mind he seems to be in tonight. While she would be filing no complaints, she did have to wonder if it was just meaningless sex or if the possibility of the Old Man's return had shaken him enough that he needed to feel something aside from whatever was going on in his head.

She doesn't know much about his sordid past and she prefers it that way; it makes getting along with him much easier if she doesn't snoop or ask questions. She's learned that if he feels like there's something he wants or needs to share with her, he'll open up and let her see what he'd rather not show anyone. His past is still a sore spot and opening himself up to judgment is like opening old wounds that have no business being reopened. There's a lot of vulnerability hidden behind those careful guards he's built and when he lets her in, she knows not to push or judge. He doesn't need it and she doesn't want to scare him off.

"The Old Man's going to make a mess."

His sigh of resignation, of acceptance, is muffled by her shoulder blade. He had pressed his face there, seeking the warm solace of silky skin. He's never really sought solace or comfort in anything that couldn't be ingested (with the sole purpose of passing out), but he's learning that the solace he needs can be found in Ilsa, if only he'll open himself up to accepting it. And, while he knows that this is only temporary and tomorrow will bring with it the complete and utter turmoil that marks the Old Man's appearance in his life, he'll take what he can get until he's forced to face life again.

"Are we ready?" she doesn't roll over to look at him, fear of what she might see in his eyes keeping her still.

"I don't know, if you can be ready for the Old Man."

But he does know; the answer is no. They are not ready, not even a little bit. The Old Man's taste does not veer in the direction of subtle eloquence. Wild west, perhaps. The messier, brasher, and more grandiose the better, and all the better should Christopher Chance end up on the ass end of things. Modern day gun-slingers, he supposes. Who's the fastest? Strongest? Better at hiding? And this battle royale will continue until they're both faced with the same question - who will kill who first?

Could Chance even kill anymore?

And, not because he's protecting anyone, but just out of cold blood. For the sake of his own blood-lust.

Kill, just for the sake of it.

xxx

It's two in the morning when he slips out of bed, tugs his jeans on and pulls his shirt over his head. He pockets his cell-phone, picks up his keys, and carries his boots to the door in an attempt to make as little noise as possible. It's time for him to go; he can't wait until day break. He's put up with thinly veiled threats, the knowledge that he's being hunted, and he's dealt with the fact that the Old Man wants his head on a platter for a long time, but Ilsa is not a piece in his twisted game and he refuses to let the bastard make her one.

Which is why, he's taking the battle as far away from Ilsa as he can possibly get it. Call her his Achilles Heel, or whatever you wish, but he won't let this happen. If those threats ever became reality, he wouldn't be able to live with it. He's ending this once and for all. If it meant his own death, then so be it.

He's not running.

He's protecting.

At least, that's what she tells herself as she listens to him speed away.

* * *

><p><strong>I think I just heard a resounding, "WHAT?!" from niagaraweasel! LOL! So, she does know he left. There's just nothing she can do it about it. This story will pick up in May and we shall see where this goes! Leave me some love, Dolls! <strong>

**Love, **

**RobertDowneyJrLove**


	6. May, 2014

He finds the Old Man with little effort.

Civilization is nothing but an ideal, this far into the desert. It really doesn't surprise him - well, it _shouldn't _- that someone like the Old Man would set up shop here. He's never handled city-life all that well, and especially now, in the summer when the heat brings out the worst that San Francisco has to offer, he knew the compound would be far, far away from the city. That said, he wasn't quite prepared for the shoddily constructed bungalow in front of him. It looked more like a place where one might bring life to a modern day Frankenstein, not distribute assassins. But, he supposes, this is how the Old Man works - disappears into a vast wasteland of parchment colors, only emerging into society via one of his best assassins.

He contemplates the merits of sneaking in versus just walking in the front door. There are two advantages to sneaking in - one, it'll get him pretty damn close to the Old Man, and two, he's far less likely to be shot in the head by the Old Man. However, walking in the front door also presented its own share of reasonable advantages - one, it wouldn't involve air ducts or any other small spaces, and two, he's guaranteed to get the Old Man's attention. The third advantage comes at the expense of getting caught up in a memory. Three of them, actually, and _oh _were they good. The sooner he gets this done, the sooner he's dealt with this selfish bastard, the sooner he could go home.

_Click. _

Oh. Hell.

"You gonna stand there all day, _Junior_?" cold metal presses against his temple.

While this is typically what one might call the norm for Chance, being on the business end of a gun and all, this particular gun is in the hands of someone he'd rather it not be and he's in no position to apprehend it without the Old Man painting everything in a ten foot radius with him. His own gun is not as accessible as he would have preferred - damn, did he really have put it against his back instead of his hip? - and quite frankly, he feels like he's opened the gates of hell.

"That revolver, it has what two, three bullets in it?" he has never felt so incompetent in his life; the Old Man has long been the only person who could do this to him. "One, maybe?"

"What about it?"

Yes. Most definitely time to move this along; he's one wrong sentence or move away from becoming lawn decor. "Revolvers jam. You, of all people, should know that. It's one of quite a number of problems that people have had with revolvers. And, even if it is loaded, there is a very slim chance, you'd actually kill me."

"You willing to bet on that?" the Old Man seethes; the deep reservoir of anger he's been filling all these years since his favorite, since his _son _betrayed him, is overflowing and in return he wants to see Junior's blood spill on the sand. "Because I don't think you want to do that. Not after I saved your damn life."

"One time." Chance grits his teeth, glaring at him.

"I don't make it a habit of saving people I'm not particularly fond of." the Old Man growls lowly.

Chance chuffs at this - clearly, his old boss hasn't gotten any better at lying, seeing as how he's still in full possession of all of his brain matter. It had been almost four years since that incident and up until now, it had seemed like the Old Man was going to let bygones be bygones and leave well enough alone, but as usual, just when he thought he could move on with his life, the one person who can upend his world reappears and threatens the lives of every single person he cares about.

"I don't like you that much, anymore, either." Chance breathes, trying not to cringe away from the barrel of the gun. "I'm not sure I ever did."

"Then, why did you stay with me for as long as you did?"

"You were a way out for me." it's the truth, at least, what he remembers of it. "I was a teenager, I was homeless. I had nothing, didn't even have a name I could call mine. You took me in, gave me a job, a life. A name. It was the only way I could survive. I would have died. Yes, you saved my life, but it wasn't worth the price I paid. By the time I left, I didn't even recognize myself."

"You were the best." the Old Man yells, sneers, really. He's tired of this merry-go-round, tired of playing these games with Junior. "You were set to take over!"

"But I didn't want it!" Chance counters loudly; angrily. "I was a monster. I was a machine, Joubert! And you made me that way!"

It's true.

Joubert - the Old Man - whatever, had made him exactly what he was, or what he had been. He had twisted and bent and pressed him into a mold of what he considered the perfect killer. No morals, no emotions. A baselined human brain, sinuous and perfectly content to do whatever was asked of him, without asking questions. But, it hadn't taken long for outside sources to shape something of a personality in Chance; to bring out his protective nature, to show him who he could be, instead being stuck in the same loop. When he had figured out who he was, what he wanted to be, he had rebelled against Joubert and he had rebelled hard.

"You shouldn't have stayed, then!" Joubert retorts sharply.

"I couldn't leave and you know it."

A quick twist of his shoulders and he's driving his arm into Joubert's elbow. It's not the smoothest maneuver but he manages it, somehow. It's his self preservation instinct, he supposes, and it serves him well. It doesn't disarm the Old Man but it gives him just enough time to pull his own gun from the waistband of his black jeans and point it at Joubert's heart. His lips twist into something of a satisfied smirk; "You didn't think I'd show up unarmed, did you? That might be the only useful thing I ever learned from you. Never show up to a fight unarmed. Now, about what I came for."

"Why are you here?"

There's a hint of resignation in Joubert's voice; not quite defeated, and probably still calculating all the ways he can kill Chance, but reluctant to actually do so. He's always had something of a soft spot for Junior, or Chance, whatever the hell he calls himself these days, and as much as he'd like to deny it, he knows that it's still there.

"The pictures." Chance growls. "You're the only one who could have taken them."

His shoulders square and an ugly smirk curls his mouth at the corners. "So what if I did?"

"Then, you better start thinking up a damn good reason why I shouldn't paint this desert with you, right now!" even as he says it, the gun wavers in his hand. "You better start talking."

"You can't kill me." Joubert crows, something between amusement and disbelief playing in his eyes. "You won't kill me."

"I've got a gun pointed at your heart. I'm not going to miss." Chance steadies himself as best he can. "You don't want to bet on me, Joubert. You wouldn't when I was still with you. You know better than anybody how unpredictable I can be."

"You aren't impulsive." Joubert reminds him, "You're crazy but you've always had a bad habit of thinking before you do something and right now, you're thinking of all you've got to lose."

"Which is what?"

"That tall British woman that pays for your life." always with the weak spots, that man. Looks for the least little thing and uses it against you. "Ilsa Pucci. I know you aren't stupid enough to think that my men wouldn't go after you and everyone you care about should you decide to use that gun on me. As far as I know, Baptiste is still rotting away up there in Siberia. He doesn't care if I live or die, never did before."

"You were brutal." Chance snarls, his finger tightening on the trigger; just enough to make the bastard before him sweat a bit. "The last assignment we had together, he caught malaria. And where were you? Out recruiting new machines while I kept my best friend from dying. You want to know why Baptiste hated you? Because you were willing to leave him in a South American jungle to rot. It was Guerrero who came to get us. It was Guerrero who came in on the helicopter and pulled us out. You hated him and he knew it. You hated Guerrero, too. Everyone but me, because I was set to take over. But now, you hate even me."

"You left."

"I hated myself." he's never been the most stable person, not as far as his psyche went and right now, he can feel himself slipping back into that person. That shell of an assassin that hated himself and everything and everyone around him just because he could. Because he thought he loved a woman, he didn't even really know. "I couldn't stand who I was. I told you that. I'm not here to talk about me. I'm here to talk about why you've been following me. Why you took those pictures."

"Because you've got a lot to lose." Joubert taunts him, throws his life back in his face. "And, it'd be a shame if someone were to swoop in and take it from you."

"That sounds like a threat." Chance grits his teeth, feeling antsy and irritated. "And, I promise you, you won't like what I do to threats."

"I dare you, boy."

He's not sure how it happens, but one minute his old boss is tossing empty threats and pointless dares at him, and the next he's flying at Joubert as if he hasn't got a thing in the world the lose. The revolver flies out of the Old Man's hand and they tumble backward into the side of the shoddy bungalow. It's one thing to threaten to kill him and one thing to actually do it. There's a part of him, the part of him that still has his sense of reason, that knows Joubert can't fight back, not after being tackled like that. He knows that but he still throws wild punches and spills over ten years of pent-up anger until the Old Man is bloody and half-conscious.

"You're a threat. I hate threats." Chance breathes heavily, glaring at him. "If you come near me, 'that British woman', or any of my team ever again. Impulsive or not, I will find you and I will kill you. And, don't think for a second, I don't mean that. You've hung the same _shit_ over my head for the last ten years, and I'm done. I'll let you live, but if I find out you've been taking more pictures, you won't be so lucky the next time."

In true Christopher Chance fashion, he leaves the Old Man to take care of himself, picks up both of the guns and leaves as if he was never there. He's been here long enough, he just wants to go home. He wants to be back in San Francisco with his friends. He wants to take a shower, that isn't either boiling hot and freezing cold, and he wants to sleep in a familiar bed instead of crappy hotels or not at all. He wants to move on with his life.

xxx

He loses track of how many days he's been driving, and by the time he makes it back to San Francisco, he's pretty sure he'll be perfectly happy if he never has to look at another desert road for the rest of his life. He doesn't care about the warehouse, doesn't care when or how Winston finds out he's back in town after a three week hiatus, doesn't even care that Guerrero is probably out doing a body hunt for him, or that Ames is probably in Vegas, gambling her last paycheck away because he hasn't been around to stop her. He feels bad, not being around to help her, to keep her under his wing in the last few weeks. But, he'd had something to do and now that he's back, he has something else to do.

She is _not _going to be happy with him.

Not that he can blame her, but Ilsa Pucci is a force to be reckoned with on her best day, he can't imagine what she'll be like now. He still has to face her, even it means enduring her wrath. When he pulls up to her apartment, he's not surprised to find her at home - with him gone for almost a month, there was a decided lack of work to do around the office. He shoves the car in park, pulls the key out of the ignition, and on a whim, grabs his bag from the back. It's not just a need for clean clothes that pushes him to grab it, it's a way to show her that he won't pack up and run again. He's not leaving again. He's settled all of his business with the Old Man; there's nothing left to do.

The chime of her doorbell echoes through the apartment and he recalls a time, not too long ago, when he didn't need to ring the doorbell. He could walk right in; he was the sole owner of the spare key, but he hadn't felt right taking it with him and had dropped it on her coffee table before leaving. He hears her soft footsteps padding through the house and the squeak of the hinges as the door swings open. When her eyes meet his, her shoulders square and her mouth thins into a grim line.

"Hi."

"I assume you're here for a reason." Ilsa speaks curtly, opening the door wider to allow him entrance. "Come in. I'll get you a drink - heaven knows I need one."

He steps into her apartment, blue eyes darting around, taking in everything that's different. Which isn't much, and part of him is grateful for that. If she had changed anything, he thinks it would mean in the interim, she had decided it best to pick up and move on with her life. Not that he could blame her, if she had, but secretly he's glad she hadn't. He needs her in his life, to what extent, he doesn't know and will probably never admit even when he does know, but he needs her in his life.

"I couldn't..I couldn't kill him." Chance fidgets, eyes darting around in a haste to find something other than Ilsa to focus on. "I found him - I had him. He was right there and I couldn't do it. I had two guns, one was his, one was mine. I could have set the whole thing up to look like a suicide but I couldn't." he looks lost, as if he doesn't know what to do with himself, anymore. "I beat him within an inch of his life and I threatened him but I couldn't do it."

"No one expected you to kill him." her voice softens, ebbing away into something a little less angry. "The only person who expected you to kill him was you."

"Me?"

"I couldn't care less whether he lives or dies. I do not know him nor do I wish too." Ilsa shrugs, and it's the truth. His old boss meant nothing to her. His life, or death, was of no consequence to her or the business she runs. "What you did was for you."

"But, what I did means nothing, if he's still alive!" he snarls at her. Even he knows he doesn't mean it, but it's been a long few weeks and he's tired and angry at himself, at the Old Man, and how that entire scene had played out. "It doesn't mean anything. I beat him. I punched and kicked him until he was bleeding and only half conscious but it means nothing!"

"It means quite a bit, Mister Chance." she's going to win this, even if it means blistering his ass and _making _him like it. "It means that you are not the same person you were when you worked for him. It means you have a far great capacity for compassion than even you realize. And, it means that, that part of you is gone. He doesn't exist anymore. You spared the life of the one person you hate most, because you are afraid that killing him means all the work you've done to rebuild yourself, all the redemption you've sought will mean nothing."

"You know nothing about me, Ilsa!" he lashes out, not because she's wrong but because it's far easier to be indifferent than to admit she's right. "You don't know anything!"

"I know what I've seen." she always has a counter to whatever he backhands her with; never taking what he gives because she knows he can give better. He _has_ given better. "You do whatever it takes to save a person's life, regardless of whether or not they deserve it. You accompanied me to Ireland without question, even when it seemed like I didn't want to be there. You've saved my life, more than once."

"Ilsa, please, don't!"

While she's never heard him beg, and in any other situation, she might consider it amusing, maybe even erotic if in the right context, but she's in no mood for this. With squared shoulders and a certain determination about her, she interrupts him sharply. "You come to my home feeling sorry for yourself because you couldn't kill a man, whose existence should be of no consequence to you. He means nothing to you, Mister Chance. I refuse to let you stand there and snarl like a bear because I said something that you don't want to accept. If you want to feel sorry for yourself, go right ahead, but do it on your own time. Not mine."

"He saved my life." he sinks back against the wall behind him, readying himself for a tale, he isn't sure he's ready to tell. "I was a teenager, I think, in and out of the system since I was born. I never had a name, not one that I can remember at least. Hell, I don't even know how old I am. Never knew my birthday. Nobody ever cared enough to tell me so I didn't care enough to find out. The Old Man, or uh, Joubert as he calls himself, found me trespassing on private property." she laughs at this, because it is typical Chance, and moves closer to him. Her proximity is comforting, urging him to continue. "I was hungry, looking for food, and he pulled me out before the cops got me. Told me he could give me food and a permanent home. I didn't know the price I'd pay. All I knew was I was weeks, maybe even days away from starving and the promise of food sounded too good to pass up."

"What happened, Mister Chance?" she prods gently, tenderly even.

"He made good on his promise. Kept me well fed, dressed, and let me live with him. Called me Junior, said if I ever needed an identity, he'd give me one but for now, I could have his." his laugh is empty, memories of that guileless, clueless teenager looking for something to call his own, filling his eyes with tears. "I finally had something I could call mine. He trained me, taught me how to shoot a gun. Hand to hand combat, and the subtleties of disguise. I racked up a body count that put the others to shame. Guerrero's reputation is nothing compared to what mine was. I was set to take over, but then Katherine Walters came along and suddenly, I didn't like who I was." his dark eyes stare at the floor, unable to handle looking at her. Not now. Not while he's telling her his life story. "I was supposed to kill her, that was my job but I didn't do it. I protected her. I did everything I could to keep her alive. I let my feelings for her cloud my judgment. I put her on a boat, told her not to look back. I knew, when Baptiste blew up that boat, killed her without blinking an eye, that I needed out."

She doesn't say anything. She doesn't have to; she knows better than anybody what it's like to lose someone you love. How much it hurts, how it always feels raw because talking about it never helps, and alcohol can't erase the memories of what was, of what can never be again. He misses Katherine as much as, if not more than, she misses Marshall. She understands his pain, his anger, and his helpless feeling because she had been there herself and nothing had seemed to remedy her problem. Until she found him. Until she dragged his scruffy ass out of an ashram and he saved her life. She bankrolled his life, his mission, but what he had done for her had been far greater than anything she could have done for him.

Maybe it's the vulnerability of the man behind the mask, or maybe it's their inane need to be close to one another, but whatever it is, it burns hot and bright between them. He draws her into his arms, pulling her tight against him. She wraps her arms around his broad shoulders and presses her hips into his. This intimacy, this closeness, is something they've both missed and as much as they'd both like to release a whole hell of a lot of tension right here in her living room, it isn't what he needs.

Not tonight.

"Come on, Mister Chance."

She leads him to her bedroom and it's there that three weeks of bottled up tension and frustration are released. They drive each other closer to the brink than they've ever been, closer to exploding in a rush of ecstasy, before they finally allow it to happen. In a rush of stars and a few supernovas just to complete the experience, he finally finds something to call his own. He finds something that he never thought he would find.

He finds peace.

* * *

><p><strong>This chapter tortured, haunted, and aggressively charged at me like a cage fighter for weeks. Finally, after fighting with it, I just had to let it be what it is, which is absolute crap to me. So, the whole confrontation is a little more emotionally charged than like an aggressive cage match. I figured, Chance has more than just some stupid pictures as reason enough to find the old Man. He's just using that as a cover to lash out at the Old Man, but he couldn't kill him because he still remembers being helpless before the Old Man came along. It was implied that the Old Man saved Chance's life when he recruited him. And then, the whole thing happened with Ilsa. I'm not sure what happened there. Anyway, like it, hate it. Leave me some love, Dolls! <strong>

**Love, **

**RobertDowneyJrLove**


	7. June, 2014

June sweeps in with a front of blistering heat. Temperatures near one-hundreds keep the city hot and sticky, like an egg frying in a dry pan, and the darkness of night barely offers a reprieve from the sizzle of heat. And, like the five months before it, June also brings its share of misgivings and colleague related ordeals for her to sort through; whether it's sign off on a medical waiver courtesy of Guerrero's penchant for torture or wire the money for Ames to fly back from Atlantic City, after she had gambled her money away and gotten herself banned from three different casinos. Aside from Chance, who is sometimes as bad as his counterparts, Winston is quickly becoming the only colleague, she can handle in a dosage suitable for adults and not children.

Ames stumbles off of the elevator early the morning after the money transfer; too large sunglasses shielding her face from the light, and her clothes rumpled from sleeping on the plane. While it would be easy to lecture her about the dangers of going off and stranding herself in some city, Ilsa is all to aware of the fact that Ames is about as likely to listen as a three year old, who is hell bent on eating chocolate for breakfast. The humiliation of being stranded and having to call home for money combined with the hangover she seems to be suffering through is enough punishment. She is pouring them both a cup of coffee, commiserating with Ames about it being comparable to oil sludge when she hears it.

_"Ilsa!" _

What the hell?

She's known of him to raise his voice, ahem, on occasion but bellowing was a bit uncharacteristic for him. Very uncharacteristic, actually, to the point it worries her slightly. It is only when he sprints into the small kitchen area, in a fit of blind panic that she allows herself to relax. He's rarely ever this panicked about something serious - he's the calmest person she knows in the middle of a gun fight, but put him up against his own emotions and he's practically killing himself with anxiety.

"Mister Chance, I'm certain Miss Ames would prefer if you spoke at a lower volume." Ilsa chides, turning her back to him. If she looks at him, she cannot promise that she will not laugh her ass off at his anxiety over God knows what. When she's certain she can look at him without laughing, she sets her mug down and spins on her heel to face him. "What is the matter?"

"Winston knows!"

Okay. So, his panic wasn't completely unfounded, but the matter didn't warrant his level of anxiety. It's certainly not the worst thing that could happen - and, she would know, she has a working list in her head of everything that could possibly go wrong while working with these men (and Ames, but Ames was on her side). "Mister Chance, forgive me, I'm not seeing the problem." Ilsa sighs with slight exasperation. "Please enlighten me?"

"He - well he - " Chance fumbles for the answer to her question, even though he knows there isn't one. She's right. There is no problem. They've never been all that worried about the others finding out about their, uh, whatever this is they're doing. They've discussed it, after sex, no less, and he thinks they both knew it'd happen sooner or later.

Ames snickers into her cup of coffee, standing up to interject her own opinion into the conversation. "We all know, Chance." she points out, as if it is the most obvious fact in the world. "Why the hell wouldn't we? You practically shouted it to the world."

"What? No, we didn't!" Chance protests heavily.

"Nice hickey." the snort is very unladylike but entirely Ames and the glare Chance sends her way doesn't do anything but make her laugh harder. She holds her hands up in surrender, careful not to spill her coffee, even though she plans on pouring it down the nearest drain when nobody's looking. "All I'm saying is that you two are not the most subtle about things. You might as well just have sex in Ilsa's office."

Both Ilsa and Chance blush fiercely, one scandalized at the idea, and the other wondering if Ames was in his head because he'd had that same idea on more than one occasion. Namely, the day after she seduced him with seafood and chocolate. That idea should be tabled for later discussion, because that is an experience, he most definitely wants to have. Although, it'd take some nudging and convincing to get Ilsa to go along with his idea.

"Ames, do us both a favor and keep out of my personal life." Chance growls at the younger woman. With that, and memories of the last time she stuck her nose into his personal life vivid in her mind, she wisely makes herself scarce, mumbling something about Winston's hangover cure and hanging around until the next mission. He waits until he's sure she's out of earshot before turning back to his benefactor. "Ilsa - "

"Mister Chance, we knew they'd find out sooner or later." Ilsa rationalizes calmly. "You've already said it doesn't matter, why all of the anxiety?"

"How the hell are you so calm?" panic colors his voice, and she's sure there should be some kind of sign flashing above his head to warn of the impending explosion.

"We are two consenting adults." Ilsa reminds him sternly; her supply of patience is quickly depleting thanks to him "We are not doing anything wrong nor are we hurting anybody." her next words mix pleasantly with a saucy grin, "If you'd like to continue this discussion over dinner and maybe a good bottle of brandy, I'd be happy to do so." Oh, damn her. She sobers to her usual professional facade and with a sharp click of her heels, excuses herself. "Pardon me, Guerrero's penchant for torture has left a sizable stack of medical waivers on my desk."

"Seven?" he calls over his shoulder.

"Eight."

xxx

Winston and Ames are elbow deep in some new hacking code in the conference room, Guerrero is off the grid for the time being, and Ilsa is packing up to go home when Chance comes down the stairs. He's fresh from his second shower of the day, after a hard workout left him sweaty and slightly sore, in a pair of dark jeans, an off-white button down, and his usual boots. His keys and cell phone are shoved in his pockets and his wallet is in his back pocket, his driver's license providing him with a false identity, should he find himself in need of one. He makes his way over to her office and taps the door; "Hey."

"Hello." she barely spares a glance from the pile of papers she's sorting through. "I'm not quite ready."

"Take your time." Chance leans against the door-frame. "No rush."

Her laugh is breathy, heavy with the fatigue of a long day. She is more than ready to go home, eat a nice dinner, drink some expensive alcohol, and let Chance, ahem, _work _the tension out of her tired muscles. He steps into her office and pulls the door closed behind him, moving toward her couch to sit down and watch her finish off her work for the day. It's not necessarily something he would do everyday, but seeing as he is driving her home today with every intention of spending the night, he's willing to wait while she does whatever it is she does to keep their business running smoothly.

"So, uh, today was interesting." his attempt at small talk is amusing, she'll give him that.

"Your anxiety over this entire situation was unwarranted." Ilsa chides without looking up from the waivers she's signing. "They were bound to find out sometime. Better it be because of one little mark, than because they caught us doing something inappropriate in here."

"Ilsa." Chance's warning sounds a bit more like a groan than he would have preferred, but it's too late now.

Okay.

It's time to play. Time to see just how far she can push him before he begs her to stop. She neutralizes her expression and speaks with measured caution; "Ames' idea was interesting, I'll give her that, but I always thought _you_ for a man with much more imagination."

Does she not realize the fire she's playing with?

He receives his answer when she continues, her voice wrapping around him like a vice. "You do like to keep things interesting, don't you, _Mister _Chance?"

"Did you, uh," his voice is gravelly; thick and rough with more arousal than is probably appropriate for the conversation. "Did you have something in mind?"

"I personally like to experiment. Perhaps, the private jet?" her voice conjures explicit images of all the compromising positions they could manage on her private jet. "Or, perhaps in the shower?"

She _really _needs to stop.

His jeans are almost painfully tight and it is going to make walking out of here extremely awkward. She shifts in her chair, crossing her legs, and damn if that pencil skirt doesn't drift north just enough to make this whole situation a hell of a lot more painful than it already is. Her skin is creamy and he knows from experience that if he were to touch it, he would find it warm and firm and silky beneath his hands. He knows possibly better than anyone what she feels like against him. All of the soft curves and damp heat; silky and erotic underneath him.

"Somewhere a bit more wild, like your car?"

_Shit. _

She wasn't done, but if she doesn't stop, he's going to be done before they even get anywhere. He'd very much like to get this entire thing back to her apartment before a third shower is necessary and his colleagues start looking at him funny. "Ilsa." he jolts forward with a gasp, his breathing erratic and his voice barely above a whisper. "Stop!"

"Are you alright Mister Chance?" she looks over at him innocently.

"If you don't want this entire night to stop before it starts, you'll keep quiet until we get back to your place." Chance growls breathlessly. "Otherwise, you're going to have one hell of a time explaining to Winston and Ames why I came out of your office _wet._"

She giggles slightly at his implication and blushes slightly at the realization that she taken it farther than she had intended. It was supposed to be a bit of fun verbal foreplay, get him a little riled with notions of scandalous sex, but she had more power over him than she realized and he was on the verge of finishing before they got to the fun part. She reaches for her briefcase and purse, tucking papers away and digging for keys, as she stood up.

"Perhaps, I should wait in the car?" Ilsa suggests, heading for the door.

"Yeah." Chance breathes, leaning back.

He wills himself not to watch her leave; those hips are just going to make everything worse. He already feels as if he's burning from the inside-out, he doesn't need to spontaneously combust from all of this. It's clear to him that she's going to need a lesson on just what she does to him because she truly seems to be clueless, and the full extent of what she almost did to him was lost on her. Boundaries would have to be set, especially when in the office, where anyone could walk in on them.

That said, he wants to know where else she was thinking of?

xxx

It was the perfect cover, really.

The less-than-tech savvy Winston attempting to learn some new hacker code, the just as incompetent Ames by his side, not at all helpful and only there because she's too broke to be anywhere else. It is not, however, what is happening in the conference room. The books on computer codes made it seem real, and when the tell-tale click of shoes went by, pointless typing and a few discreet taps pulled up Googled images of screen-shot code, kept up appearances but none of it is real. Guerrero is a walking encyclopedia of computer code, both legal and illegal, although his knowledge of the latter is far more extensive. There is no need for Winston and Ames to know, unless it is absolutely critical, which it isn't.

Then again, neither is spying on their friends through the security camera in the elevator, but neither of them had anything better to do. Curiosity probably did kill the cat, but at least they'll go out with a bang - literally, because they're both pretty sure Chance is going to shoot them for this. But, seeing Chance and Ilsa leave the office separately but just as flustered and uncomfortable as the other, makes their deaths worth it.

"That looked like a walk of shame." Ames laughs, when Winston cut the feed. A sobering, and gross, thought occurs to her as she remembers that morning when as a joke, she had told Chance that him and Ilsa might as well have had sex in her office. "Oh god!"

"What?"

She relays what she remembers of Chance and Ilsa's conversation that morning and her own input into the conversation and how it was meant as a joke, not for them to actually do it. The notion of what might have happened in Ilsa's office, before Chance and Ilsa had made themselves scarce, makes them both cringe. Nevertheless, Winston presses a fifty dollar bill into Ames' palm as they leave because she won the bet of whether or not they were 'doing it' fair and square and the details of a new wager are hammered out in the elevator.

Yes, Chance is most definitely going to kill them.

xxx

"So," he wraps a damp curl around his finger and gives it a light tug. "Where else?"

"Where else, what?" she cranes her neck to look up at him.

"Earlier, in the office, when you were trying to kill me," his grin is lupine and his words tease her. "After you suggested sex in my car, where else were you going with that list?"

Where else?

Oh.

Well, that was for her to know and him to, hopefully, _never _find out. When she had started compiling her list of places she'd like to have sex with Chance, it had seemed far beyond the realm of possibilities. And, she had been drunk off her ass on rum and truth serum at the time, so she hadn't exactly been in her right mind. Her list wasn't that long, only one other place - the elevator - after his car, mostly because she had given up on getting anywhere with him. Until New Year's Eve and that dance. Until Ireland. Until everything that had happened recently. While the idea that he'd be willing to make it reality is appealing, she isn't sure she's ready to divulge her fantasies about him.

"A lady never tells her secrets." she does, however, offer him a saucy grin as she rolls over on top of him. "I'd hate for you to die an early death."

_Damn. _

Not knowing may not kill him, but she might.

* * *

><p><strong>So, here's what happened - I sorted out my feelings regarding my <em>situation <em>(you can read about it, sort of, in my profile) and I found myself in need of smexy times and who better to provide me with that than Chance and Ilsa? And, I had wa-ay too much fun with this. Like way too much! So, while my life isn't completely back in working order (and my account is still sort of down until my life is worked out), I wrote this and decided to post it before it got lost. Leave me some love, dolls. **

**Love ya, **

**RobertDowneyJrLove **

**P.S. Niagaraweasel, careful not to drool, sweetheart. **

**P.P.S. Also, I'm insanely attracted to Joey Lawrence, right now. **


	8. July, 2014

A paragon of domesticity?

Eh, hardly.

But, Chinese take-out does not a healthy and nutritious meal make, although it certainly made for a perpetually empty wallet. He figured at some point, preferrably sooner rather than later, he'd better to learn to feed himself out of his own kitchen. While not a gourmet chef, he was quite capable of holding his own if given the right ingredients. He wouldn't deny that his first attempts at a decent meal, worthy of consumption, had all but blown up in his face and for a while, he thought he was screwed six ways to Sunday. He was better than some, worse than others. Burnt fish and a weekend of food poisoning worse, but still, he could hold his own when he needed too.

In his various ventures into the realm of cooking meals, he had quickly learned that breakfast, generally, was the easiest to make. If you could fry food or work a toaster, you could make breakfast. Or, chop fruit, but he wasn't much of a fruit person. Ilsa, however, was and in his quest to cook her an edible breakfast, he thought it best to suit it to her taste instead of his bacon-and-eggs appetite. And thus, how Christopher Chance, found himself chopping strawberries one sultry Sunday morning, while Ilsa slept the horrid week away in her bedroom down the hall. Ames' newly broken arm courtesy of a Mexican fixer twice her size and Guerrero's horrible timing - honestly, the man thrived on another person's pain, even when it wasn't deserved - had pretty much left her out of anything but paperwork and the occasional food run for the next six weeks. After that terrible case, Winston had scooped up a bit of extra cash and hightailed it out of town for a while, feeling an absence from this life they led was necessary for his mental well-being.

Chance is pretty sure the only benefit Winston's gaining is the delight of a pretty girl beneath the sheets of a hotel bed. Not that his best friend would ever admit to such deeds, nor would Chance ever force him too. What Winston did while away from the team was his business - that said, the man is nothing if not predictable and he's got a notorious weak spot for pretty girls and liquor. Mix the two and you've got his idea of heaven on earth.

"Chance?"

She pads into the kitchen, in nothing but his shirt from the day before. It's white, wrinkled, and it makes her legs look a thousand miles long, while her fingers curl around the too-long cuffs, and the buttons are done just enough to leave a scrap of her lace bra visible. She looks thoroughly disheveled, well-rested, and in need of nourishment and a bit of hydration to supplement her recovery from the long few days they had been forced to endure.

"Morning." he greets, looking up from the pancake sizzling in a touch of bacon grease.

"Good Morning."

Hmm.

He likes her morning voice. The hoarseness, the slight creak in her accent. It's kind of sexy, in a disheveled way. It certainly conjures up the idea of forgoing breakfast and dragging her back to the bedroom, but he won't do that to her. She'd been tired enough last night when he'd brought her back to her apartment, only to find himself crawling in bed with her, when she asked him to stay and he was too tired to fight her on it. He hadn't taken her for a woman who liked to wear a man's shirt but the minute he'd shed his shirt, she'd claimed it and when she had curled up next to him, his own scent mixing not unpleasantly with hers, he'd almost found himself in need of an ice bath.

"Are you - ?" she pauses at the fridge, pitcher of orange juice in hand as she swivels to look at him. "Are you cooking?"

"Yes." he flips the pancake with ease, almost professionally. "I can cook."

"I don't doubt you, I've just never seen you do it." she pours two glasses of orange juice and passes him one while taking a sip from her own. "I've never seen you look so - "

"So, what?"

"Domestic."

Chance just laughs, flips the pancake out of the pan, and pours the rest of the batter in. While it sizzles to a golden brown, he smears butter on the other ones and dear God, if he doesn't look pretty damn good in this little domestic role he's taken on. Perhaps it's the early, well late, morning hour or the fact that she's still a little frazzled and fried from the case, but her thoughts wander in the general direction of what else he can cook. Hell, what else he can do with his hands aside from disassemble, clean, and reassemble weapons and take down criminals. She takes a seat at the counter across from him, orange juice in hand, and watches him finish up breakfast.

"Chance?" it's the way she says his name, the way her voice cracks ever so slightly with hesitancy, that lets him know what she wants.

"I know." he nods, carefully fixing her a plate with pancakes, strawberries, and a few slices of bacon. "We have to talk about Guerrero."

"Not just Guerrero, this whole case." Ilsa broaches the subject with cautious; she knows him, knows how he can be. "You all took hits these past few days, your lives were in jeopardy. I know - they are with any case, but you and I both know this case was bigger than we thought."

"I know."

He fixes his own plate, piling it high with pancakes and bacon. They both know what's coming; they can't avoid the inevitable. Their last case had clobbered them in a tangled web of Mexican drug cartels, black market weapons, and dirty money. It had taken them a week just to tie up all the loose ends, two days of which was spent in the hospital with Ames while one of the country's top surgeons pinned her arm and shattered wrist back together. After her release, Chance had put her up at his place, not only so she could have a place to recover that wasn't her rat-hole of an apartment, but it was also the safest place they could keep her so that any stragglers from the cartel that tried to kill her, couldn't come for their retribution.

"Guerrero's actions put Ames' life on the line." Ilsa sighs softly, picking at her strawberries. "His feelings toward her should have no bearing on whether or not she deserves help. She needed his help and he wasn't there when he should have been. If you hadn't have pulled her when you did, they would have killed her. Now, I ask you, what should we do?"

Chance just sighs, dragging a hand through his already disheveled hair; "Guerrero is Guerrero, you won't change him. But, you're right. He wasn't there when he should have been."

Her pancakes are cooling to a temperature that will render them inedible and she'd very much like to test for herself whether or not Chance can cook, before she has to deal with the situation of what to do about Guerrero and Ames' frosty work relationship. "Let's put this to rest and eat these pancakes." her lips curl teasingly, eyes sparkling with mirth. "If you're going to go domestic on me, I simply cannot allow this to go to waste."

It draws a hearty laugh from somewhere deep in his chest and he nods in agreement but offers a warning nonetheless. "Let's not be hasty. We could still die from this."

A dish of butter, a carafe of syrup, and cups of coffee pass between them with a fluidity that suggests they've done this before; it even feels natural, for both of them. It feels like this is what they've always done, like they've always had this domestic life. No cases, no lives to save, no violence, no pissed off assassins. Nothing to get in the way. Their relationship seems normal for the first time in a long time and they can't help but wonder if it's possible to make this a normal thing. An every day thing.

Chance's ringing cell phone answers that question.

No.

xxx

The sticky sweetness of syrup lingers in her mouth.

It seems like such a sharp contrast to the bitter direction her day is heading and while she'd love nothing more than to rewind back to breakfast that morning, if only to relive the image of Chance being somewhat domestic, she knows she can't. So, with the taste of Chance's pancakes still lingering fresh in her memory, she steps off of the elevator, fresh cup of coffee in hand, and nerves steeled against whatever cataclysm of events will inevitably erupt between her colleagues, and their latest case. Chance is gathering information from their client and Ames is lounging on the couch, picking at an invisible thread on her jeans, obviously bored.

"How are you feeling, Miss Ames?" she touches the woman's shoulder briefly.

Ames rolls her head back to look up at her boss and gives her a halfhearted smile. "Like I'm about to lose my mind." she pauses, lifting her plaster encased arm in the air and giving it a quick twist. "This thing is itching like crazy. We may have to renegotiate this whole eight week deal. I'm not a fan."

Ilsa just laughs, reaching down to give Ames' bicep an affectionate squeeze. "You'll heal soon enough, Miss Ames."

"I know." Ames nods, "I can see why Chance is always at your place, though."

"Why's that?" Ilsa inquires curiously, shifting so that one hip rested against the back of the couch.

Ames grins cheekily and tilts her head toward the loft. "His furniture is damn uncomfortable."

"He seems to like it." Ilsa shrugs, "He's always sleeping."

Ames' sharp retort of it being no surprise, given how many mornings they've both shown up with sex hair, dies on her tongue when both Winston and Guerrero step off of the elevator. Winston looks more than a little disgruntled and like he can't wait for this whole mess to be dealt with and Guerrero looks fresh from somewhere, he probably shouldn't have been and Ilsa wisely chooses not to question it. Her younger companion makes a quick retreat for the stairs, mumbling about how this didn't directly involve her and she sees no reason to be here.

"Ames," she turns toward the stairs, pausing long enough to register the young woman's pensive expression. "Please, remember to take your pain medication today."

With a quick nod, the brunette is dashing up the stairs, although Ilsa has to wonder if it's because she has no involvement in this case or if it's because she's uncomfortable around Guerrero. After all, she'd been forced to endure having her arm crushed because of Guerrero's refusal to be where he was needed. She takes a sip of her coffee before tilting her head toward the conference room. "Chance is with the client."

"Okay."

"And, Mister Guerrero," she forces him to stop halfway to the conference room. "If you are to work this case, I expect you to be where you are needed when you are needed and not a second later. Are we clear?"

He looks thoroughly chastised - or, maybe castrated, one can never tell with Guerrero - but more than that, his lips quirk and his eyes flick toward his belt buckle, the one with the hidden blades, in a clear display of annoyance. "Yes, _boss." _

"Very well then," her voice softens, heels echoing in discordant harmony in the direction of her office. "Come see me, if you need anything."

In her wake, Winston gives Guerrero a hard shove but the subliminal message is clear - 'I should beat your sorry assassin ass for that' - and continues on to the conference room to meet their newest client and gather all the information, he's positive Chance isn't. Guerrero has enough sense to follow him quietly and seat himself out of the way. Had either of them bothered to look up at Chance's loft, they would've been met with the sight of Ames snickering and giggling like a school girl with a crush.

Colleague or not, Guerrero sometimes needed a taste of his own medicine.

xxx

The whiskey is a given, not a request. And, not Jack Daniels, either. It's the expensive stuff with a slow burn and a finish smoother than silk. The same whiskey that had spawned some pretty damn inventive sex and the christening of some unlikely places (how the hell her coffee table is still intact, he hasn't the slightest idea). Glasses are forgotten about in favor of the bottle, and he thinks he's had too much influence on her, when _she, _of all people, is drinking alcohol straight out of the bottle, but it's still the sexiest thing he's ever seen. The adrenaline still smolders in his veins, keeping him a little on edge, and in need of the warm wash of alcohol to rinse it away, and let him relax.

"This isn't a cut-and-dry case." one hand curls into the open front of her jacket, tugging her closer, while the other snatches the bottle from her. "He's stalking her."

"No case is simple, Chance."

His lips quirk at that, because she's as good at smart-assing him now, as he was her when their partnership first started. He tips the mouth of the bottle toward her, conceding her point, before he swallows a long drag and lets the alcohol work its magic. His shoulders settle back into the wall behind him and his fist clenches her jacket just a smidge tighter. She takes a step toward him, tugging the bottle from his unrelenting hand, and taking a drink that doesn't quite match his but he knows she doesn't quite have the stomach for alcohol that he does.

"Guerrero seemed different today." the bottle is pressed into his hand. "Did something happen?"

"I made it clear that if he was going to work this case then he was going to have to be where he was needed, _when _he was needed." Ilsa shrugs, stepping out of her high heels and kicking them aside, giving Chance the height advantage. "After what happened with Ames, I'm not sure how to go about working with him."

"He's an asshole, sometimes." he laughs and it's raspy and warm with the effects of whiskey. "Guerrero's my friend, but even I know he can be cruel."

His hand slips inside her jacket, seeking out the small of her back and pulling her flush against him. He's a little disoriented and his movements are sloppy from the alcohol but he works her blouse free from the confines of her skirt with one hand, still holding the glass bottle with the other, amber liquid sloshing. "No more for you." she slips the bottle from him. "If this is going where I think it is, you need to be at least a little sober."

"Tease." he retorts accusingly, warm palms curling around the soft protrusion of her hipbones.

All thoughts of whiskey, their new case, and Guerrero's ability to be an asshole at the most inopportune time are all pushed - shoved with great force - into the dark recesses of their minds, both preferring to be present when they continually defy all laws of science and indulge in a bit of hedonistic pleasure that seems like the lesser of the evils, when faced with the deadly sins of humanity. It's all on hold for a while, when they're with each other. Nothing seems to matter, except for maybe, how much is too much before the bed springs are demolished.

It's as close to normal as they'll ever be.

And, they have to take what they can get.


	9. August, 2014 Part One

Their new client is a bombshell - all blonde curls, full, dark lips, and even darker eyes.

If Ilsa wasn't absolutely certain that it is her bed Chance will spend tonight in, and has spent damn near every night in since March, she might see fit to be jealous. It certainly helps that they are absolute and utterly uninterested in each other, to the point, the entire conversation sounds more like what might hear of an ex-husband and ex-wife, coming off the tail end of a nasty divorce. Clipped words, an icy chill in hard voices, and frosty glares. To look at them - him with the Norse god comparisons coming out of his ass and her with Sports Illustrated model practically plastered across her chest - you'd think there would be something there, but it is freaking Antarctica in that conference room.

"How's the client, Winston?"

She needn't bother with looking up from her paperwork - Guerrero's revenge for her critique about his on-the-job performance, she suspects, if the sheer number of medical waivers is any indication - she already knows who it is. His physical presence lingers, even when he says nothing, and she'd seen him looking for the nearest escape route the last time she had snuck a peek at the conference room. She isn't surprised that it is her office, he chooses to take a breather in.

He reaches beneath the lapel of his jacket, slipping a thin silver flask out of the inside pocket. "It's like a damn meat house in that conference room." he stabs a thumb in that general vicinity. "I keep waiting for the hooks to come out."

"It's barely noon." Ilsa tips her pen toward the flask in his hand.

"Better this than a gun." he grunts, unscrewing the lid. He swallows a long drag of the liquor with a hoarse, strained laugh. "Trust me, when Chance comes out of that conference room, you'll understand why."

"It did seem," her lips quirk, mirth dancing in her eyes. "chilly, when I passed by."

He tilts the open mouth of the flask in her direction, lips lifting wryly. "It's not just chilly in there." he scrubs his eyes with one hand and draws another long drag from the flask, coughing slightly at the after burn. "I don't know what their history is, but they've got a hell of a lot of it."

Okay. Curiosity piqued.

"You think?" her entire body shifts, mouth curling in fascination.

"Oh yeah." Winston nods emphatically. "She's giving as good as she gets."

It takes him a full minute to realize what he's said; a full minute that sees Ilsa's eyebrows arching heavenward. When it finally dawns, Winston is left spluttering, nearly choking on his afternoon delight because _shit, _he hadn't meant to imply that Chance and their new client might be doing the deed in the conference room. Even Chance isn't _that _lascivious, although, if she weren't blushing fifty shades of red and, were emboldened by alcohol as Winston clearly is, Ilsa might be inclined to argue otherwise.

"Perhaps, the alcohol could wait." her head tilts, eyebrows still raised.

He screws the cap back on the flask with a pained grimace, wholeheartedly agreeing with her. It had been a good idea at the time - Lord knows the conference room could use a little something to raise the temperature a few degrees above the negative range, it seems to be lingering in - but, after his previous implication of filth, it is perhaps, too early for such hearty beverages. Later, however, he would be imbibing that scotch to the point of drunken oblivion, with a glorious side effect of idiocy being overwhelmingly blissful.

He would need it.

xxx

"Y'know," she leans back in her chair, arms crossing just under her breasts, because she's always been just a little bit more promiscuous than necessary. "I always knew you were too good to be true."

"It's not as if you don't have your own faults." Chance hisses, blue eyes flicking sharply between her and the door. "Let's not forget the fact that you almost killed me."

"You were in the way."

"Same could be said for you, Leah." Chance snarls, gritting his teeth.

"Tsk, tsk." she clicks her tongue, disappointment and mirth dancing wildly in her eyes. "I always knew you had a temper, _Junior._"

He leans forward to stare her down across the table, shoulders opening in a display of dominance - because, he'll do a lot of things but let the only female assassin he knew, get the upper hand was not one of them. "I'm not Junior, anymore." he holds up his hand, as if to present the office to her like some sort of prize, twisting his wrist for effect. "In case you can't tell. So, tell me, Leah. What the hell could you possibly want from me, now? After, what? Fifteen years?"

"Maria Gallego."

"What about her?" Chance resists the urge to roll his eyes. He still remembers his last encounter with Maria, and how both him and Ilsa ended up on the ass-end of one of her little schemes. Three years later, he still wonders if he was seeking eternal damnation in the lowest circle of hell when he had an affair with that woman. The book Dante's Inferno came to mind as a wonderfully accurate description for the South American soldier.

She is all nine circles of hell, plus a few of her own making.

"She killed my partner." Leah pauses, lips twisting in a grin closely resembling the damn Cheshire cat. "And, you, Junior, are the last person I know of, who had any kind of contact with her."

Oh, how he wants to laugh, because if there is one thing Maria is good at, it is getting rid of third parties. "Yeah," he crosses his arms over his chest. "She's good at that. Last time I heard anything of Maria, it was three years ago, she needed my help. Me and my partner ended up stranded in a jungle because of it. I told her if she needed anymore help, to shove it up her ass, because I was tired of bailing her out."

"You don't know where she's at?" Leah sighs, a little bit of desperation coloring her tone.

"Try South America." he snarls.

"So helpful."

"That's where I left her sorry ass." Chance shrugs, not at all bothered by Leah's passive-aggressive retort. She's always been that way, ever since he's known her, and she was only twenty-one at the time. His eyes narrow in suspicion - her boss should be able to locate Maria for her. "You still work for the Old Man, I'm sure he has plenty of resources, why me?"

"Me and the Old Man fell out." she tosses her blonde curls over her shoulder. "About a month ago."

"What's the matter? Dear ol' Dad not impressed with his precious little Leah, anymore?" Chance mocks bitterly, leaning back in his chair. "He never loved you, y'know. He was just so far up the ass of his clients, he said whatever he had to in order to pacify us, so we'd do our jobs and he'd get paid. We didn't get a fraction of what he did."

"Aww, is someone upset because he's not Daddy's favorite?" her patronizing comes with a rather unattractive pout and half-lidded eyes. She laughs, dry and harsh, like the Leah he knew way back when his morality didn't matter and they were nothing more than marionettes - puppets, strings tied tight around them, controlled by a monster. "Pull the stick out of your ass, Junior."

"I haven't been Junior for a very long time." Chance growls, eyes narrowing. "I don't want to be Daddy's favorite. I hated my life, Leah. I wanted to end it."

"Maybe you should have." she snarls, glowering at him.

"Excuse me?" his chair topples over, thudding against the floor. "Wait! Who do you think was there to stitch and wrap your damn wrists when you cut them with a pocket knife?" his eyes soften with remembrance, but his voice is still cold, icy with a bitterness that's not likely to melt anytime soon. "Who flushed your pills, Leah? I did! I was there for you, when he wasn't." he doesn't say it out of spite, he says it because it's true, and because what he's about to say is going to damn near kill him. "I loved you, Leah. He didn't! I protected you from him. All the times you should have been punished, I took the blame. I cared for you. Not him, Leah. Me. And now, this is the thanks I get?"

Her eyes flick to her wrists.

The thin scars are still there. Fading and long since hidden by tattoos, but the memories, unbidden and unwelcome seem to crash through her mind like a typhoon. There was a time when she had been in his position, tired of being tied down, ready to cut the strings and flee. Only, she hadn't done it quite as cleanly as he had. A no strings attached life wasn't easy to accomplish with a boss like Joubert, and instead, she had settled for the easy way out.

A silver blade marred by thick, red, heat.

Sliced wrists dripping, gushing onto a shiny hardwood floor, and the disgusting cocktail of blood and spilled sleeping pills, that hadn't worked.

She still remembers the pain, the confusion, and the hazy image of Junior, just where black hadn't quite edged out what her eyes could still make of the world around her. His strong arms picking her up from the bathroom floor, carting her to the bedroom to clean her up, and stitch up the slices on her wrist. His t-shirt sacrificed to cold tap water and coagulating blood, sterilizing a needle, and pulling her skin together with a taut loop of thread.

"Jun - I mean, Chance, whatever the hell your name is now." and it's a hell of a lot wearier than she intends. "I don't know you anymore."

And, she doesn't.

He's always been Junior. The big brother with soft blue eyes, the one who adopted her, showed her the ropes and made her the best. But now, he's nothing more than a face she recognizes from days gone by, when he trained her in hand-to-hand combat, sparring in intense one on one sessions, and stood behind her while she shot at a target, lightly kicking at her ankles when her legs inched too close together, and squeezing her shoulders to make her relax, to open them up. And, maybe the knight-in-shining-armor complex is still the same, and his eyes are still soft and almost affectionate, but it's not him. It's not the man she once considered the closest thing she had to a brother.

He's different.

And so is she.

"I'm sorry." her voice is soft, bitter, and she stands to leave, boots clicking on the glossy tile. She reaches the door, only to turn back and offer him their trademark, slightly crooked grin. The one that had passed between them like a code, silent messages when they were unable to speak. "I loved you too, y'know. You were my brother."

"I know, Leah."

She leaves without another word, refusing Winston's offer to escort her out, and ignoring Guerrero altogther, when he steps off of the elevator. Winston notes the way the shorter man's mouth falls open in shock, clearly having some sort of history with her as well, but he knows better than to ask Guerrero for any information about the past - the man might as well have been a locked vault of information, only releasing blips when it suited him, or when they demanded it of him. He looks back to the conference room, just in time to see Chance collapse in a chair, exhaustion and vulnerability pulling at his shoulders.

xxx

"Was that - ?"

Guerrero's confusion lifts his voice a couple octaves and Chance almost wants to laugh, but he can't seem to find the humor in the situation. For all of his heroic tendencies and wearing battle scars like armor against the whole of what humanity had to throw at him, he's always been able to bring himself back with a good laugh, a soft chuckle of hidden amusement, sometimes an outright full gut wrenching laugh but those are few and far between.

"Leah, yeah." his sharp nod sends Guerrero reeling straight into the chair that Leah had previously occupied. "She was looking for Gallego."

"Gallego." Guerrero's shoulders twitch in an unspoken 'huh'.

Chance glowers at him through half-lidded eyes, "I told her I left Maria in South America."

"Knowing her, she didn't take that too well."

His laugh is a slow burn, untangling the solid mass of nerves in his stomach, and he exchanges a look with Guerrero, nodding in recognition of his point - because, it is true, even after all these years, Leah still reacts rashly. She still doesn't take bad news well, at all.

"I doubt I'll ever see her again." Chance resigns softly, "She said Maria killed her partner - went looking for retribution. I could have told her, but," and, this is the part he hates. The cold, hard truth of the situation. "She wouldn't have listened. Even if she gets it, it'll be with a price."

"She's tough - smart, may surprise you." Guerrero inclines his head.

"No. Not Leah. Not when she's out of her mind on a revenge mission."

He doesn't say it to be cruel. He doesn't say it out of spite for her showing up. He says it because there's a part of him that still knows her, that still knows the truth, and there will always be that part of him that loves her to some degree. And, the truth is, when she cares for someone, she will go out of her way to protect that person, and if she can't protect them, she'll get her revenge, even it means paying a cruel price.

"I gotta bail, dude." Guerrero pushes himself up out of the chair, drawing a proud grin like he draws a knife, quick and easy. "Kid's got a softball game."

It is slightly bizarre to see his friend in proud-father mode but he knows that Gabriel Rodriguez-Guerrero is the center of his friend's world, and there is nothing Guerrero wouldn't do for the seven year old boy, the one with the floppy black hair and soft brown eyes. The one who calls him Uncle Chris and asks him questions about cars whenever they see each other - he still remembers fielding an endless stream of questions about his car, the last time Guerrero had brought the kid around. "How's Gabe doing' these days?" he's not surprised when his voice pours out like gravel, hoarse and grating.

"Wishes his Uncle Chris would come around more." Guerrero offers him a pointed stare. "He's a good little leaguer. You'd be proud."

"I am, Guerrero." Chance assures him.

"I'm out," Guerrero barely reaches the door before he turns back to his friend. "If you're going to get sloppy drunk tonight, at least make it the good stuff."

"Always do."

He salutes his friend.


	10. August, 2014 Part Two

Chance wonders how Ilsa would feel about going to a little league game for a kid she didn't even know. While under different circumstances, he might sneak off on his own for an hour or so, Leah's return has made him long for a sense of normalcy. He needs to feel what he's sure Guerrero must be feeling right now - the feeling of being utterly ordinary, standing on freshly mown grass, watching his kid swing a bat and throw a few balls. He needs a reminder that life can be common, life can have its routines, even if his didn't.

And, he's certain little Gabe would be happy.

That kid.

He can't help his fondness for the happy-go-lucky little boy. The eternal optimist offspring of two pessimists. A little leaguer with a personality bigger than his seven-year-old body should be able to contain and, for all of his inability to deal with emotions, there's something about Gabe that makes it impossible to be in a shitty mood - his current state of being. Leah's visit had only served to remind him of how bizzare, and often times dim, his world is. And, no, seeing a kid swing a bat at a ball, he'll perpetually miss, wouldn't make him forget the memories that her visit had drudged up, but it would make his world seem a little brighter, a little less odd. And, it is for this reason, he wants - no, he needs Ilsa by his side.

"Hey," his knuckles tap a three-beat tune against the door frame. "You almost done?"

Her pen pauses in its journey across the piece of paper, and it's only because she knows he'll hate it, that she doesn't look up at him with the utmost concern - the way Winston spoke of him earlier suggested he would be a snarling bear fresh out of hibernation. "Yes," she finishes her signature with a flourish and a tap of her pen to mark the dot above the I. "Did you need something?"

"Well, Guerrero's kid has a little league game and, I thought we could swing by for a few minutes." he feels bashful, leaning against her doorframe with his hands shoved in his pockets and a light flush illuminating his cheeks.

"Alright."

She doesn't stop to ask questions - it wouldn't get her anywhere - instead, she packs up her briefcase, grabs her purse, and locks up for the night. If this is something he wants to do, and it obviously is, than she wouldn't question it. She knows, whether it be subconsciously or just a subtle shift in their whatever-the-hell-you-call-it, but she's noticing his need for routine, for something approaching normal, and while they both know that the 'American Dream' is far out of reach for both of them, they've come far enough in this partnership to take a few moments to appreciate the calm before the storm.

First, pancakes, now a little league game.

xxx

"His name's Gabriel." his mouth curls into a fond smile at the mention of the kid, clearly one of the few joys in his life. "But, don't call him that. He much prefers Gabe."

He twists the steering wheel, pulling into the gravel lot of the baseball field. They'd only made a brief stop at Ilsa's so that she could change into flat shoes before heading to the field. Through the window, they can just see Guerrero's silhouette leaning against the trunk of a tree on the outer edge of the diamond. The sun fries what's left of the day even as it descends into the horizon and the cool sweep of nightfall lopes in slowly. Their approach is quiet, and if not for the crackle of falling pine needles and changing leaves, they might have gone unnoticed by Guerrero, whose look of surprise cannot be hidden, even with the most neutral of expressions.

"He just hit first base." Guerrero explains. "If the next kid hits, he should make it home. Score'll tie up."

"He's getting better." Chance nods, following his friend's gaze to first base.

Ilsa is barely able to follow the game, even under Chance's instruction, but even he'll admit to not understanding baseball all that well - whether's it's the little league games or the MLB, he only knows the basics, which is enough to follow, but not enough to teach. Along with Guerrero, they follow Gabe's movements, watching him slide onto home plate, before taking up position as a pitcher and toss a brilliant pitch to a snarling batter - because, Jesus, his parents took the game way too seriously, but it was made even when he missed.

"Hey Gabe!"

It's a risk calling his attention but it's one Chance is more than willing to take. He's all sweaty hair and a red and white baseball uniform when he twists to seek out the source of the voice. His eyes slide over his father and to the familiar figure next to him. Ilsa is surprised to see the little boy light up like a Christmas tree, and practically fly off of the bench, around the fence that separates the players from spectators, and barrel toward Chance. "Uncle Chris!"

And, he's bounding up off the ground, Chance's arms lifting him, his laughter springing out into the dusky air. "Hey buddy!"

"What are you doing here?" Gabe slings a grass-stained arm over Chance's shoulder, little hand finding his neck.

"Heard you had a game tonight." Chance grins, tugging the brim of Gabriel's red and white cap down so it obscured his view. "You did good, buddy."

He shoves his cap back up into position and smiles proudly, happy to hear a compliment from his 'Uncle Chris', before his gaze strays over Chance's shoulder. "Is that your girlfriend?"

Oh.

Well, that derailed. And, quickly.

Ilsa turns away from her stupid attempt at following the game (absently watching - that one snarling boy really could play quite well), to look at the pair. It's quite a sight, really. Chance wearing his usual attire - jeans, a t-shirt, and his leather jacket, even in the heat - holding a boy in a baseball uniform, both of them grinning like fools, despite the boy's rather oddly timed question. It's such a stark contrast to her colleague's usual self-loathing and brooding state and she wonders if this, being here, playing uncle to his best friend's son, is how he escapes his past, if only for a little while. It seems like he's both out of his element and immersed in it all at the same time. It's endearing - and, holy hell, is it sexy.

"That's Ilsa, buddy." Chance answers the question carefully. "She's my _friend._ And, she helps me run the business where I work."

"Oh." Gabriel tilts his head, pondering Chance's words, only for a moment before his head pops up and he bares his teeth in a megawatt grin. "Hi Ilsa."

"Hello Gabe."

It only takes two words for him to make up his mind about her, apparently, because instead of responding he leans toward Chance, who inclines his head to ensure he heard him. She watches, fascinated and curious and amused all at the same time, as whatever he whispers has Chance blushing like mad and nodding in agreement. Whatever secret is passed between them is obviously good because they exchange grins.

"Coach needs you, Gabe." Guerrero jerks a thumb in the direction of the coach.

"Okay, buddy. You have a game to finish and I have to go now." Chance sets him back on the ground and kneels down to his level. "You still have my number, right?"

"Right."

"Call me - tell me all about beating them, okay?"

"Got it. Bye, Uncle Chris."

"Bye Gabe."

xxx

"Uncle Chris, huh?"

Her fingers curl against his ribs, palming fistfuls of his t-shirt beneath the open front of his jacket, and nudging her face into his neck to do something slightly pornographic in nature to that delicious curve where his neck slid into his shoulder. "Yeah." if not for the extra bit of breath in his voice, one might think him unaffected. "I was there when he was born. Gabe's a good kid."

"He must be," she grins against his neck. "He adores you."

Her current ministrations are brought to a grinding halt (literally - his hips are moving against hers, seeking friction), when he spins them and presses her into the nearest wall. And damn, have they even made it past the front door yet? A quick look to her left informs her that while they are not verging on public indecency, they are still in the foyer, and the door had indeed been closed and locked before this entire thing began.

"It's taken an embarrassing amount of money and more time with contractors than I ever dreamed my ass would spend to get this wall fixed." it's a play on words, reminiscent of the same speech that pulled his ass out of a Nepal ashram. "I just have one thing to say to you." she grabs his arm, crumpling a palmful of leather jacket in her hand, and pulls him toward her bedroom. "You better be worth it."

His laughter follows them into the bedroom, where he proves his worth, in more ways than one. And, later, when he's wrapped around her, all sweat and sex, he'll remember what Gabe had whispered in his ear about Ilsa; _"She's really pretty. You did good, Uncle Chris." _

Yeah.

He definitely did good.

* * *

><p><strong>First things first, niagaraweasel, sweetheart, are you still with me? I hope you enjoyed this! And HOLY HELL! Isn't this just the cutest?<strong>


	11. September, 2014

_Fire. _

_Ash. _

_Smoke. _

_Soot. _

_The rancid iron scent of blood. _

_It's all there. It clings to her clothes, settling in the fabric, and onto her skin in a filmy layer of grime and stench. She feel the singe of embers, sparks burning her skin, and when she gets back to her hotel room, she'll find the remnants of it later. Little red dots on her skin, holes in her clothes, charred and black around the edges. Her feet slip inside her shoes; raw and blistered, oozing blood from scrapes where popping windows had showered her with glass. It's all unimportant though; even though her clothes and shoes cost more than half these people make in a year, she doesn't care. Her husband is still in that building; in the north tower. He's still there and she wants him out. _

_She wants to see him; his short, dark hair, and those soft eyes. She needs the tenderness of her husband's unyielding strength to reassure her that it's okay, that everything would be okay. Even though, she knew it wouldn't. It wouldn't be okay for New York for a very long time, if ever again. But, she couldn't just very well walk in and drag him out. They wouldn't let her. She wouldn't get ten feet before they would drag her back out or something could injure, possibly kill her. _

_"Please?" she tugs warily, if a bit desparately on the thick material of a fireman's jacket, because he's the closest emergency personnel, she sees. "My husband's in there - please? Look for him."_

_His sharp green eyes cut to the injured British woman clinging to his sleeve, desparately needing her husband. He's tired and he's getting everybody out he can, but he can only do so much, and he can't afford to take requests when so many lives were still hanging in the balance. On the other hand, her accent suggests that New York is not her home and without her husband, she's either lost or stranded in New York. "I can't say for certain I'll be able to get him out, but give me the best description you can, and if I see him, I'll try to get him." _

_"Dark hair. Dark eyes. Name's Marshall Pucci. He's wearing a green shirt and black pants with a dark silver tie." she spouts off, barely able to manage the words for the haze of confusion that's settled into her mind. _

_Confusion. Anger. Fear. _

_"Okay." he reaches over to squeeze her arm, despite himself. "Ma'am, I'll do my best. Now please, go to the nearest ambulance and get those wounds taken care of." _

_"Thank you." _

_She shuffles back through the stampeding crowd, but her shoes hurt, and the crowd is bumping into her from angles that are borderline sexual assault. A direct hit by someone's abnormally sharp elbow between her shoulder blades is enough to send her toppling off balance. She's so exhausted, in so much pain, that getting up makes her feel physically ill and she's almost content to lay there, crumpled on the ground while the crowd shuffles around her, until it happens. _

_The smell of brimstone and fire and blood is replaced with the scent of buttery leather, Old Spice, and something that smells a bit charred, but not in a bad way. In a masculine way, in a good, strong way. She knows it isn't her husband, but the arms that wrap around her and lift her up from the asphault are strong and she sinks into the embrace like a child after a nightmare. He's not her husband but he's certainly got his merits. He'd probably just saved her from being trampled to death. _

_"Hey," his voice is soft, sandpapery, and relatively even for all of the chaos around them. "I know, you don't know me. But, you were almost trampled." he navigates the crowd easily, talking the whole way, but whether it is for himself or for her, neither of them can say for certain. "A city street isn't the best place to have a breakdown, even though you're entitled to one right about now." _

_His arms are replaced by something soft, and her head sinks down onto what she thinks is a pillow. Her shoes are being pulled off and the flash of crumpled silver catches her eye as a space blanket is settled around her. It's only then that she realizes she's shaking. Hard. His hand is warm and rough, callused, when it slips into hers, and she feels much better with him here. She doesn't know him, doubts she'll ever see him again after this, but if her husband can't be here with her, at least someone can. _

_"They're looking for your husband, right?" _

_"Yes." _

_It hurts. God, does it hurt. Her throat feels hot and raw, like smoldering coals being raked over tender flesh. And, who the hell is touching her feet? Could they not be gentler? Even as her eyes grow heavier, the shock wearing off, she still manages to look at her feet. It's some EMT, young and probably inexperienced, tending to her wounds with the gentility of - oh. Whatever that analogy was. It hurts too much to even try to come up with comprehensible sentences. _

_"I'm sure they'll find him soon." he soothes gently, thumbing a dry circle around one of her knuckles. "Just try to relax." his eyes cut over to the EMT, who seems to be making a mess of her already mangled feet. "Hey, buddy, how about leaving her alone?" _

_The EMT makes a quick exit. _

_"What's your name?" _

_A bottle of hydrogen peroxide is tipped, foaming liquid seeping into the wounds on her feet, and one of his hands knots the sheet beneath her up in a makeshift towel to clean them off. The fabric is rough and chafs a little but his touch is far more tender than that of the young EMT. He makes quick work of applying whatever antibiotic cream he's found and bandaging her up as best he can. _

_"Are you allowed to do this?" she's soft and weary, exhaustion bearing down on her. _

_"Probably not." he murmurs, ripping a piece of white medical tape off of the roll. "In fact, you should probably see your doctor when you get back to London." he examines his handi-work, before his eyes raise to her, and he lets himself chuckle at the look on her face. "Your accent - Londoners don't think so, but their accent is different to the rest of England." _

_"You never told me your name." _

_"You, either." _

_"It's Ilsa." she speaks softly, shyly, almost. "Ilsa Pucci." _

_"Well, it's nice to meet you, Ilsa." he smiles tenderly, sobering slightly when he has to explain his utter lack of an identity. "I don't really have a name. Bit of a gypsy that way, but it keeps me safe. Keeps me from getting hurt. If I don't have a name to get attached too then I can't let anyone else in too close." _

_"I'm sorry, you feel like you have to live like that." he doubts she'd be apologizing if she knew the truth. "Maybe one day, you'll find something to call your own." _

_"Maybe." _

_"Ilsa!" _

_He turns away from the woman laying on the gurney, to see a man in a tattered black suit, charred and torn in places, running toward her. He's covered in ash and soot and he smells like fire and sulphur and explosives when he approaches them. Ilsa's face brightens considerably, heavy brown eyes tearing up, and the space blanket drops to the foot of the gurney as she sits up, arms already reaching for her husband. It's only when she's swept up in the comforting arms of her husband, whispering his name reverently into the charred lapel of his jacket, that he slips away into the crowd. _

_Her husband is Marshall Pucci. _

_His former target. _

xxx

_Thirteen Years Later..._

"I was there." the pasta is al dentè between his teeth. Vine ripened cherry tomatoes blister in a sautè pan. "I was in New York."

It's all a strange juxtaposition to accompany a day when normal had been nothing more than a blip on the radar, waving as it passed by. He had a bittersweet feeling about being there when terrorists shook the world with their unthinkable actions, especially since in the hell he'd been busy perpetuating for himself at the time, he'd been as despicable as them. And, she still carried her own guilt; it's a terrible weight to carry around, walking away with your loved one, when so many were forced to carry on alone.

"Still worked for the Old Man, then." he gives the tomatoes and peppers a quick stir. "By the time I got out of there, I thought I'd never feel safe again."

"Did you?"

"Yeah, but I was never really fond of New York." Chance pulls the pan off of the stove and adds a dash of Sherry to help caramelize the vegetables, before setting it down again. "I've been in California for as long as I can remember. The Old Man was based here, then."

"So, you were there for -?" she doesn't have to ask; she already knows why he was in New York, or at least, why he would have been there at that time. "I assume."

"Yeah."

A slotted spoon dips into boiling water and the pasta screams as it hits the pan. He makes quick work of scooping every last noodle - tortellini, because he's cheeky, like that - into the pan and shaking it around a bit to mix it in. This, here, with her, cooking - it feels normal, it feels safe on a day when so many feel vulnerable and afraid and alone. It feels like he wants to do it everyday, even though in his line of work, they lived by the day and there was never a guarantee.

"I was there, too, with Marshall." she absently twirls the white wine in the glass, she'd been nursing while he cooked. "We were in the north tower, on business. I got out, but when I looked, he wasn't with me."

Her words tug at the knot in his stomach, voice sparking that flicker of recognition that's burned in the back of his mind since she had found his cowardice ass in a Nepal ashram.

"I got knocked over in the crowd," his stomach takes a giant leap up into his throat, memories pounding through his mind in time with the nausea throbbing in the back of his throat. "My feet had gotten cut up by glass, from the windows, and I couldn't walk in my shoes. I was going to be trampled when I was picked up by a stranger, and he carried me to an ambulance. He even chased the EMT away and bandaged my feet up on his own."

"Wh-what was his name?" his knuckles whiten, fingers tightening around the edge of the counter.

Ilsa tilts her head in thought, before she finally remembers the words of the _stranger _that had saved her life, so long ago. "He said he didn't have one, that he was a bit of a gypsy."

"It kept me safe. No name meant no attachments. I didn't have to let anyone too close to me." Chance recalls the words he had thrown at her, a reason for his lack of identity, one of the few reasons he could give that wasn't a complete lie. "Your feet were blistered and cut and the EMT didn't know what to do so I chased him away and did it myself."

"Chance?"

"I told you that you should probably see your doctor when you got back to London." his laugh is thick, watery, remembrance of that day pulling his voice down to a much lower octave. "I teased that you Londoners didn't realize it but your accent is different. You, uh, you asked if I was allowed to take over an EMT's job, and I told you no, but I did it anyway. Ilsa - "

"You saved my life."

Her voice is nothing more than a feather-soft whisper, but God, if it doesn't unravel him because it had been _her. _

All of the memories of that day, they were all of her, of picking her up off of the street before the stampede of people trampled her to death. The recognition that had sparked, hot and intense, when she introduced herself hadn't been weird at all. It had been that day, calling on him to remember the name, and to remember the woman, whose life he had saved but he hadn't. He had forced it away in sharp defiance of his instinct. "It was you."

Their dinner is ruined by now; a mess of blackened vegetables and congealed noodles, but neither cares. To know that they had met thirteen years ago, that he had saved her during one of the most chaotic days in history, it's more important. They'd been complete strangers. He didn't _have _to save her life; he could have left her there in the street, but he hadn't. And, she's here with him, now, and he considers her to be one of the few people, he can truly depend on.

"Ilsa, who I was - "

"Is not what I care about."

"Maybe you should." Chance sighs wearily, because frankly, this conversation is a bit much. "Ilsa, when I saved you, I was not me."

"So, who were you?" she inquires gently. "You weren't Christopher Chance, but you weren't Junior, either. You told me you didn't have a name."

"It wasn't just about my name." his stomach twinges, because for all of his brute strength and spy-like stealth, his past still wrings him out. "It was about me. It was about the time I started questioning the Old Man, it was how this whole thing started."

"I thought it started with - " her voice drops off into nothing, and she wrings her hands. It's always a sensitive subject,

"I was questioning him, long before that." And, he wasn't anymore ready to admit it then, than he is now. "The Old Man knew it, hated me for it. Resented me for questioning him, after he saved my life."

She's seen this Chance.

The brooding, self-loathing side of him, thought he hurt more than he helped, or in some cases (when he's drunk), that he's of absolutely no use to anybody and the world would be a better place without him. While it has taken her some time to adjust to his methods, she's come to realize that her life is far better with him in it and she's certain that if more people would bother to look, they, too, would be better for knowing him.

"I don't care about your past." she speaks firmly. "Anymore than I care about the Old Man. What happened in the past is exactly where it should be - in the past. You can't change it, and learning that it was you that helped me that day," if his breathing catches a bit when her hands find his abdomen, well, who's going to tell? "Well, that just makes me care less about your past. You are still you, Chance. I don't regret a single second of the last three years. I would do it all again."

Chance leans toward her a little more, slipping his arm around her, and tracing a single line up her spine to splay his hand on the base of her neck. He wraps his other arm around her and tugs her into him, a wry grin pulling at his mouth. "Even the gargoyle?"

"Well, it wasn't one of our finer moments, I'll grant you that, but it certainly wasn't South America." she become a bit of a smartass - has he mentioned that - and he's not quite sure he appreciates how easy it is for her to nail him to the proverbial wall.

"Or nine-eleven."

"Thank you, for saving my life." Ilsa grins, leaning up toward him.

He chooses - wisely - to close the distance between them, catching soft lips between his teeth, and swallowing moans when the temperature between them rises. He presses her against the counter and they're all tongue and teeth and hips grinding and rubbing and _oh dear God_, if he doesn't want to do it right here in her kitchen. She pulls away and whispers something salacious in his ear and he tilts his head back in laughter, because this is one time, he's more than happy to recreate the day they met.

The first one.


	12. October, 2014

"- put the gun down. You don't want this, you know what'll happen if you pull that trigger."

"He deserves to die!"

"I know," Chance nods, because frankly, he agrees. Caroline King's son-of-a-bitch husband did deserve to die for beating her like he had for years, but he also knows that if she kills him, if she pulls that trigger then she goes to jail and Jackson King gets what he wants. "If you pull that trigger, he wins. He dies and you go to jail. He deserves a lot worse than a bullet to the head, but if you do this, it is you the cops handcuff. If you put the gun down, and give it to me, he gets the handcuffs, not you."

"You promise?" Caroline stutters, hands trembling around the gun. "Do you promise?"

"I do, Caroline." he moves closer to her, fingers closing around the barrel of the glock. "He's a bastard for what he did to you - I agree. But killing him won't make it better."

"What do I do?"

"Go outside. My friend, Winston is there. He's an ex-cop, he'll know how to help you." he pulls the glock from her and reaches his arm around her, nudging the scared woman toward the door. "I've got this. Just please, go outside."

She slips outside and through the slit in the curtains, he can see Ames, first aid kit in hand, giving her a once over and Winston dialing a number to get the poor woman some help. He turns back to the man, hemmed up in the corner, bloody and a little broken - if the blood gushing out of his nose and dripping from his mouth is any indication - hissing like a wounded cat. He slips the glock into the waistband of his jeans, tucking it against the small of his back, and makes his way to the lumberjack of a man.

"So smart, are you? Think you know everything, think you can help everyone." his drawl is all gravel and cheap whiskey. "But, I know you. You believe in the innocent until proven guilty, but when has that ever worked? The justice system is corrupt. Look at what it did to my mother, my father!"

"You beat your wife because the justice system wronged two hippies with a drug problem?" Chance's brows furrow, confusion in his eyes. "King, your parents were found dead in an alley from a heroin overdose! They were druggies. You were raised in a caravan because they bought drugs instead of a house."

"Don't you talk about them like that!"

"You were raised in violence and drugs. Your father beat your mother." Chance speaks carefully; treading on the eggshells of King's damaging anger. "You saw it, everyday. Sometimes multiple times a day. But, it doesn't make scaring Caroline, okay. It doesn't make hurting your wife okay. It doesn't bring them back. You need help, man. And, a lot of it. Now, the cops are going to handcuff you, and you're going to get it."

"What about Caroline?" Jackson's voice trembles; he's terrified now, the realization that his parents hadn't been the saints he remembered, crashing in on him hard. "Will I ever see her again?"

"I don't know. That's up to her."

But, he knows the truth.

If Caroline had been desperate enough to seek someone outside the authorities for help escaping her husband, the chances that Jackson King would ever see the pretty red-head again were non-existent. She would likely be too afraid to ever look at him again. Flashing red lights and the door squeaking open is enough to let Chance know it's time to get the hell out of there. He waits until he's sure his client's soon to be ex-husband had no intention of running before he slips away, unseen, as the cops swarm and King is handcuffed.

"The cops have him, Caroline." Chance brushes a hand across her small shoulders. "He won't hurt you, anymore."

"What do I owe you?"

Chance opens his mouth to object, but Winston interferes before he can say a word, taking the young woman's soft hand in his own. "Not a damn thing. He's taken enough from you. We won't accept payment. If you need anything, you have my number, give me a call, and I'll see what I can do."

"Thank you," Caroline slumps forward, looking up at Chance gratefully. "He would have killed me."

"It's no problem." Chance's rarely shown sincere smile slips out for a quick moment before he slips into protective brother mode. "You call me, young lady. I'll run thorough background checks on anyone you think is suspicious."

"Yes, sir." a quick salute before a kind looking blonde appears behind her, wearing an EMT jacket, and waiting to usher her to an ambulance. "Thanks, again."

"No problem."

She huddles into the EMT and is led away to a waiting ambulance, where her parents are clutching each other, grateful that their little girl - beaten and bloody, though she may be - is alive, that she had survived a domestic violence dispute. Chance and Winston exchange a glance of relief, before escaping to their cars in silence; neither willing to discuss where they would call home for the night. They're both tired and glad this case is over.

"C'mon, Ames." Chance murmurs to the young woman, pressing a hand into her back. "I'll take you home."

"Thanks." Ames mumbles under her breath.

There are only a few people in Ames' life, who truly know the reason for Ames' marriage coming to an end as quickly as it come into existence. Winston blames it on the quickie wedding, and Guerrero is hardly around long enough to ask questions, but Chance and Isa know the truth. They know the bruises and the pain and the emotional abuse her ex-husband had subjected her too, and how it had taken her a month to be ready to work again.

When she's buckled safely in the passenger seat, he pulls out his phone, and dials a number. "Hey, yeah, it's me. It's over. Listen, I have Ames. Do you mind if I...? Alright, yeah. We'll be there in ten. Bye." He ends the call and jogs around the car to slide into the driver's seat. "Alright, Ames, change of plans. You're coming home with me."

"Chance, I - " her protestations are useless with him, though, and she knows it. "Is Ilsa okay with it?"

"I called. She said the guest bedroom has been ready since this case started." the Camaro growls to life and he swings out of the King's driveway with ease. "She's got beer and Thai."

"Do you love her?"

"Ames, don't, you've had a - " Chance can think of a thousand reasons this conversation is a terrible idea, not that she'll hear any of them.

"Just, please," Ames sighs softly, turning to face him, curling into the seat. She's always felt small around Chance, yet, always safe and protected. It's one of the reasons she's stuck around, well, and Ilsa. If anyone to ask, she would probably deny it, but in the last three or so years, she's come to adore Ilsa, as an older sister, and almost as a surrogate mother. "Do you love her?" she asks again, wrapping her trembling arms around her knees.

Did he love Ilsa?

Well, if he's being truthful (God's honest miracle), yes. He loves Ilsa quite a bit. He thinks he always has, ever since that dance in the window on New Year's Eve, when holding her closely, intimately, had felt so different but so natural and right, like he'd found what he'd been missing. And, heaven knows there were a lot of chinks in that armor he wore. If he has to answer Ames - and he does, because she is stubborn - then the answer is... "Yes."

"Have you told her?"

"No one knows but you, Ames." Chance admits softly, flicking the turn signal on and sweeping smoothly over into the next lane of traffic. "I just figured it out, myself."

Nothing more is said; Ames' curiosity is sated, and Chance has had enough of the chick-flick moments for a while. But, even he knows he has to tell Ilsa. It affects her as much as it does him, as much as he'd rather tear off a limb than be vulnerable for anyone, it needs to be said. Especially after a case like this one; where 'I love you' was false, and fists took the place of words. Both breathe a inaudible sigh of relief when they pull into the parking lot of the complex and make their way to Ilsa's apartment.

"Ilsa?" his keys drop onto the table by the door. "We're home."

"In here." her soft voice echoes from the living room.

There's a full buffet, or so it seems, of Thai food spread on the coffee table along with a couple of six packs of beers, and a glass of wine for Ilsa. She could handle Jack Daniels, even the occasional tequila shot, if Ames talked her into it, but something about beer made her want to empty the contents of her stomach into the nearest toilet. She greets them with a soft smile and lazy eyes that suggest the glass of wine is not her first and invites them to help themselves. Conversation is slow but steady and the intake of food slows as the alcohol seeps into their blood streams.

"Well, you two enjoy," Ilsa yawns as Chance and Ames open their third beer. "I'm off to bed. Goodnight Chance. Goodnight Ames."

"Night Ilse."

"Night Ilsa."

xxx

"Okay, I've had all I want." Ames polishes off her fourth beer and stands up from the armchair. "I'm off to bed."

"Goodnight, Ames." Chance laughs, finishing off his own beer.

"Night."

He watches her disappear up the stairs, dragging with exhaustion and the influence of too much alcohol, and attempts to make his way to the bedroom. She's sleeping peacefully when he enters; curled around her pillow, the thin strap of her emerald nightgown sliding down her arm. He changes into the sweatpants and t-shirt from his bag and climbs into bed with her. He's barely settled into the mattress before she's trading her pillow for his chest and slipping underneath his arm.

_"Have you told her?" _

_"Noone knows but you, Ames"..."I just figured it out, myself." _

I love you.

Three little words; so simple, yet so complicated. If he says them, there are a thousand and one ways this thing between them could go wrong; she could not say them back, she could be scared away, but more than that, he could lose her, and he can't do that. Ilsa is the one constant in his life, the one part of his life that actually works. They live their lives by the day; gambling it away in ways unimaginable to the rest of humanity. It's a risk doing what he does, saving people, always looking down the barrel of a gun. And, if he finds that one thing that works, why risk it? Wasn't his life enough? He had fallen pretty damn hard and fast for Katherine Walters, only to crash and burn, but this, well this is slow and easy.

Oh, God.

He hadn't lied to Ames, earlier.

He did _really _love Ilsa.

"Thanks, Ames." Chance laughs, looking down at the woman curled into his side. Her black curls spill over his shoulder, one long, slender arm is slung across his abdomen, while the other is lost somewhere between them and he makes a mental note to readjust her so he doesn't crush her arm. He thumbs a dry spiral around the soft protrusion of her shoulder blade and in the dark cover of night, when she is being safely carried away in the arms of Morpheus, he tests the words he can't say in the openness of daylight.

"I love you." the words feel heavy, laden with a weight he's not familiar with, with a warmth he hasn't felt in a long while. "I love you."

He's never heard the words.

Nobody's ever said them to him. And, he's never found anybody he's wanted to say them too, until now. Until her. So, he continues on, until the words run through him, rolling off of his tongue as naturally as her name. Until, he feels the arms of Morpheus sweeping him away into his dreams. If he'd stayed awake for a couple of more seconds, he might have heard the soft whisper of her voice when she returns his sentiment.

"I love you, too."

* * *

><p><strong>Niagaraweasel, I'm gonna need you to breathe. In. Out. Deep. Slow. In. Out. So, while you're breathing, I'll offer you a fun little fact. When I looked up Morpheus to see if I had the right god (god of dreams), I discovered that he is in fact the god of dreams who appears in Ovid's Metamorphoses. I thought I was seeing things. Anyway, this chapter isn't that good to me but I think you'll like it. Leave me some love. <strong>

**Love, **

**RobertDowneyJrLove **


	13. November, 2014

Lipstick, all blood and cherries, smudges.

Dark print on white cotton - starched, itchy, with too many buttons.

_click-clack. _

Green and gold.

Twisting and swishing (prettily, sexily, _seductively_). Torturous, tempting, and oddly amusing but it's best not to think on that one. A flame flickers orange, long shadows thrown on beige walls, moving and swaying (dizzily). She tugs impatiently on his bowtie, but he stops her - my god, is it choking him, though - clasping both of her wrists in one hand, index finger trapped between them; her pulse is leaping, throbbing, beneath the skin and she's certain he can feel it now. She wants to move this along, but he's stopping her, and it isn't rejection she finds in his eyes, but a request. He doesn't want this to go fast, doesn't want it to end before he's explored the possibilities of what could be.

_"Slow down." _

His voice is barely audible, lips pressed against the top of her head. He spins her around, guiding her to the nearest wall. She's pressed against it with little effort, cheek resting against the cool plaster, hands on either side of her head, and she feels her pulse drop down, with the change in temperature. Chance takes the opportunity to do a little undressing of his own - shedding his tie, jacket, and shoes. She's breathing heavy, standing flush against the wall, looking delectable and while he wants nothing more than to take her right there against the wall, hot and hard, he also knows that the night would end way too quick for his liking.

"Did you enjoy yourself?" his tone is conversational; as if he doesn't have her pressed against the wall, fully intending to have his way with her. He fingers the zipper on the back of her dress, tugging it up and down, teasing her. "Hmm?"

"Yes."

"Good." Chance presses closer to her, inching the zipper down slowly, careful not to touch the skin revealed. "It was for you."

"It was for us - the foundation." Ilsa breathes, clenching her teeth in frustration. "Not just me."

"You run it."

He eases the zipper down the last few inches, letting the fabric fall open. The scars, remnants of her childhood in Ireland, are a creamy temptation but he resists. As much as he'd like to do to hers what she's done to his, he won't. Not yet, anyway. He pinches the flaps of fabric between two fingers and tugs, peeling the dress away from her body. It pools around her high heeled feet in a puddle of dark silk and his voice is like rich, dark chocolate when he gives the simple order; "Step out."

"Chance?"

"No." he murmurs, picking up the dress, and slinging it across the back of a chair. "Hold on, Ilsa."

_Dear God. _

Is he getting some sort of sick gratification out of torturing her like this?

If that is, indeed the case, then she'd have to wear that dress more often because this is so exquisitely painful, she almost wants to test him, see how far he'll go before it's too much for either one of them. But, he's in control and he's obviously enjoying himself, far be it from her to take that from him. And, there's that part of her that enjoys this being out of her hands, that enjoys relinquishing control to somebody she trusts.

Somebody, she's come to love.

His finger tips sweep across the back of her neck, moving her hair out of the way, and his mouth kisses a hot trail where her hair had been. The response to his touch is almost immediate, her lungs expell all oxygen therein, and she feels a gasp catch in the back of her throat. His hands tangle in her hair, pulling it up, and he finds that spot behind her ear. It elicits such a sharp response, he's almost startled, but she relaxes into it and he smiles into her skin. His other hand trails down her ribs and over her hip bone.

"Chance." Ilsa is shocked by the sound of her voice; saturated with want, with _need_, the kind of primal need she hadn't felt with Marshall. Seeking gratification for its own sake, nothing more. "Please?"

"Not yet." Chance murmurs, his face pressing into the curve where her neck slid into her shoulder. "Slow down, Ilsa."

His hands wrap around her hips, fingers curling into the skin, tugging her back. She sinks back into him, allowing him access to her neck and shoulders, and wherever else he wants to touch. The muscles in her stomach ripple under his touch - if he smiles in satisfaction, well, nobody has to know.

It isn't as if Chance didn't know before that Ilsa is a beautiful woman, but seeing her like this is a new perspective. Holding her like this, hearing, feeling, and seeing her reactions, it gives him a new sense of who she is. She isn't just the strong business-woman he's come to know, or even the slight smart-ass he's in a relationship (_it feels good to call it that_) with, but a woman vulnerable to her own emotions, and to_him. _

Ilsa Pucci is a gorgeous woman and, God help him, Christopher Chance is in love with her.

Yeah.

He thinks he likes it.

* * *

><p><strong>Christopher Chance, you are kinky, aren't you? Yeah, so I kind of hate how I ended it a little bit and when I'm not feeling a little blocked, I will probably end up re-writing it but before I ended up having to write two freaking chapters, I finished it and left it as is. Niagaraweasel got several previews and...uh, you're okay, right? Anywho, leave me some love, Dolls! <strong>

**Love, **

**RobertDowneyJrLove**


	14. December, 2014

Connie's party is a smashing success, emphasis on the _smashing; _but, she still needs a breath and as soon as the opportunity arises, she makes a hasty retreat to the nearest exit. The cold London air is hardly refreshing - actually, it's something more akin to being stabbed with an icicle. Repeatedly. But, the Pucci mansion is stuffy and full of people she hasn't seen for at least two years. She had only been acquaintances with them when she had lived in London and her move to the states had all but snapped that thin thread of cordiality that kind of held them together. She pulls her jacket tighter around her and shoves her hands in her pockets, tucking her head into her chest to avoid the icy wind.

Yes.

Definitely should have grabbed that scarf.

It's too late, now, though. She hardly feels like venturing back indoors, even if it has to be nearing midnight and she's not with her family, or with her real family. To be perfectly honest, Ilsa wasn't feeling very welcome in the Pucci home, and she's starting to wish she could book the nearest flight back to the states. Her home isn't in London, it's back in San Francisco, and her family is not Connie or anyone else in her late husband's family. Her family is Christopher Chance, LaVerne Winston, Ames, and even Guerrero. But, she still carried the burden of the last name Pucci and attendance hadn't been mandatory but she felt it an obligation to at least make an appearance.

"Connie's looking for you."

His voice is darker, a hoarse contrast to the sparkling activity of London celebrating the arrival of the New Year. She turns slightly to find him standing in the shadows of the alcove that extends out from the top of the front door and forms the ivy-covered archway that greets guests arriving at the mansion. There's a small bundle clutched in one hand and his free hand is shoved in one of his pockets.

"Yes, well..." she looks down, tugging at the skirt of her dress. "I needed some air."

"That's a lie."

Good ol' Chance.

He'd call her out on a lie in a split second because he can. He can see right through her; she might as well be made of glass, she's that transparent to him. It should scare her. And, for long time, it did but what could she do? He'd wormed his way in, pushing and prodding and making her feel exposed, vulnerable in ways she didn't like, until she had no choice but to let him see. She felt like she had laid her soul bare for this man and would do it again, if he asked.

"You forgot your scarf." the soft wool of her scarf slips around her neck, trapping the heat of his breath. "You barely talked to her in there."

"I'm not a Pucci, anymore." it's a nervous habit - adjusting her clothes even when they're already perfect, it's a habit. She's never quite been able to shake it, which might be why people read her so easily. "I've always felt like one of the family, because I lost my own but since I moved to San Francisco, I am not part of this family. I am not one of them."

He slips an arm around her, tugging her into him, and she's reminded of an icy rooftop a few years ago; the CIA and a couple of M16's had been involved then, but that could be overlooked. He had taken the gun away from her, and pulled her closer, away from the danger, away from whatever could harm her. "They are your family, Ilsa. They are."

"No."

His breath is warm on the side of her head where he presses his face into her hair. Christopher Chance isn't one for affection but he could rise to the occasion. "Ilsa, Connie personally invited you here tonight. She wanted you here for New Year's. She wouldn't have called if she didn't."

"She didn't call."

"What?"

"You think Connie called me personally?" Ilsa's wry laughter rings over the sound of Auld Lang Syne and bells chiming in the distance. "Her personal assistant called me, extended a vague invitation, and informed her so she could pretend she knew all about it when I actually made an appearance. Don't be fooled by the closeness, you saw in there, Mister Chance. The Pucci family is not above simply keeping up appearances for the sake of society." her eyes are glassy, and she seems far more exhausted than she had earlier. "I was happy with Marshall. I was - but it was his family. Connie was fine, as long as I was with Marshall. But, after Marshall died...and I built a life outside of what I had with him - I want to say it hurt her, Mister Chance, but I think she was just bitter. She blames me and there is nothing I can do to change her opinion."

"Well," he checks the watch on his wrist; eager for a change of topic. "I think it's safe to say, we missed the New Year's celebration."

"I would say so." her laugh is watery, thick, but she's grateful for the subject change, however abrupt it might be. "Actually, it's only four in the afternoon, in San Francisco. We still have another eight hours, by my calculations." his eyes narrow in suspicion but she remains neutral. "We could always go back to the hotel and, ahem, _kill _some time before midnight in the States."

"We could." Chance nods in agreement, and my God, is he willing to do whatever she asks of him.

"Or," there's a swell of noise behind her, and she tilts her head toward it. "We could go back in there and celebrate with them."

"Hotel's five minutes from here."

The Pucci mansion is a distant memory by the time they reach the hotel. They stumble to the elevator, far too tangled up in each other to pay attention to the other people watching them. When they reach their room, his jacket is slowly sliding off his shoulders and her scarf is barely hanging around her neck. They ring in the New Year with very few clothes and a lot of happy noises that their neighbors can probably hear. It is the next morning before the words Happy New Year are ever actually uttered and it is only because of a drunken phone call from Ames.

Connie's thank you note is a week late.

Ilsa doesn't really care all that much.


End file.
